


A Hundred Mornings After

by MindfulWrath



Series: Vital Ruins [2]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Abuse, Addiction, Aftermath of Torture, Drowning, F/F, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Control, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Suicide, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 63,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even so many nights and so many miles away, Strife is still haunted by the ghosts of a past he'd rather forget--and not all of them are his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Tell me you'll do anything to make it stop. I want to hear you say the words._

Strife woke in a cold sweat, breathless and shaking. His hands flew to the atomic disassembler next to his bed and clenched around it until his knuckles creaked.

He lay perfectly still for the space of a hundred racing heartbeats.

"He's dead," he said to himself, learning to breathe again. "He's dead, it's over. He's dead."

His shoulder twinged, and he rolled some of the tension out of it, his hands still white-knuckled on the shaft of the disassembler.

The cold of his room was too familiar. He steeled himself and rolled out of his bed. The light of the disassembler illuminated the space underneath, and he searched it thoroughly before straightening up. On silent feet, he snuck to the door and pulled back the three bolts on it, then yanked it wide open, the disassembler poised to strike.

The hallway was empty. Strife waited a good ten seconds to make sure it stayed that way, then shut the door and bolted it again. The cold was prickling at his skin, numbing his feet. He threw open the shutters on his window and peered out.

The lights were on at Nano's. A single lantern burned on Zoey and Fiona's porch. Up on top of the hill, the runes on Kirin's manor-house glowed faintly, glimmering through the grove of his trees.

Strife slammed the shutters closed and locked them. He unbolted his door—again—and crept out into the main part of his house. He made a beeline for the kitchen, which had a window that looked the opposite direction to the one in his bedroom. These shutters, too, were thrown open, and he peered out again.

Sips's house was dark. Across the street, the soft glow of Lomadia and Nilesy's glowstone lamps illuminated their garden. In the far distance, at the bottom of the valley, Parvis's hut was little more than a dark stain against the landscape.

Strife forced himself to breathe. He closed the shutters gently, though his hands shook when he locked them again. He set his back to the wall and held the disassembler against his chest. He closed his eyes and focused entirely on his breathing for a good minute and a half.

"He's dead," he repeated. "It's over."

The gentle hum of the machinery out back made the walls purr. Some of the tension started to unwind from his spine. He let out a slow breath and opened his eyes.

The house was just as empty, just as still; unchanged through his inattention. Meticulously, he searched the rest of the house—bathroom, hallway, closet, the little studio where he tinkered with intricate machinery in all his spare hours. He settled down there, leaning the disassembler against the wall next to the worktable. He clicked on the desk lamp, adjusted his chair against the wall.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, glancing over the assorted screws and wires and resistors and capacitors. "Where was I?"

With trembling fingers, he started in on the delicate circuitry, falling back into the easy patterns of silicon and copper. The buzzing in his head started to quiet, and minute by minute, the vicious tension in his body ratcheted down.

After perhaps an hour, the basement generator sputtered, coughed, hiccuped and died. The machines out back wound down, their humming quieted; the desk lamp faltered and went out, leaving only moonlight to illuminate the room.

The silence closed over Strife like frigid seawater.

He could still see the scars on his hands, even in this dim light—the crooked finger, the neat seam across one palm, the sporadic dots and scratches. His lungs shrank by two sizes, and his vision started narrowing down.

_Such pretty hands you have, my pet._

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and counting up by prime numbers under his breath.

Two, three, five seven. . . .

All he had to do was put more coal in the generator. It would take two minutes, and then the power would be back on and he could get back to work, there would be no silence and the cold would not be gnawing at his bones anymore—

Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three. . . .

_Such sweet prayers. Who are you praying to, my pet?_

"He's _dead,"_ Strife growled, his voice shaking. The tension was all back, clicking up notch-by-notch as the silence wound the key in his back, as the cold brittled the springs around his bones.

Thirty-seven, forty-one. . . .

_Tell me you'll do anything to make it stop. I want to hear you say the words._

The whimper was involuntary, but the sound of it, the feeling of it hot in his throat, brought all his carefully constructed defenses crumbling down.

Some nights, there was just no keeping it out.

* * *

 

_Cold air stung his face as he was hauled out of the frigid water. He gasped, and the water in his lungs gurgled, and he coughed and sputtered and retched. His whole chest was on fire with pain, eating him from the inside out._

_"Apparently," Rythian remarked, "not_ _ that _ _long. Maybe it's because you were struggling so much. We'll do it again, and really_ _ try _ _to hold your breath as long as you can, because I'm going to hold you under for longer."_

 _He couldn't speak, could only cough up more water and gasp and gurgle. The hand his his hair tightened and he was plunged into the freezing water again and the world got darker and darker and he couldn't move his arms or legs and it hurt_ _ so much_ _—_

 _The collar was cold, cold like the water had been, and he still couldn't breathe properly even though he wasn't gurgling anymore; but Rythian was warm like sun-drenched stone, and nothing_ _ hurt _ _anymore and it was so easy, so easy to just do what he was told and not_ _ think _ _about it anymore—_

_He was so hungry he couldn't move, could barely open his eyes, so hungry it felt like his stomach was eating itself. He couldn't stop shivering, even though he wasn't cold anymore—_

_And Rythian was so_ _ warm, _ _and his voice was so sweet and it was all so easy. . . ._

* * *

 

The door opened after a minute of constant hammering. Strife toppled inside, shivering violently, tears on his face, his own breath burning the inside of his mouth.

Parvis caught him, folded him in his arms and buried his face in Strife's shoulder. Strife sank his teeth into Parvis's neck to give the unbearable heat somewhere else to go. Parvis went rigid, his hands clenching on the back of Strife's shirt.

"Strife," he said—and that was it, just his name, breathless and laced with pain.

Strife shoved him, hard, sent the both of them staggering through the room until Parvis slammed into a wall, and Strife was biting so hard it was making his teeth ache, but it wasn't over and it wouldn't _be_ over until he ended it himself, and then for a few hours he could finally feel _safe. . . ._

Kissing Parvis was like trying to drink from a glass full of razors, but the taste of his own blood was important, was just one more bolt on the door of his panic—and it never failed to get Parvis hard, which was also important.

Strife broke off the kiss and dropped to his knees, hardly feeling the pain. His vision had gone soft and blurry, his thoughts dissolved into drifting particles.

It was easy. It was always easy to fall back into the trench of training, cut deep with jagged tools, so much easier than trying to claw his way back out. His fingers were clumsy and he could feel Parvis shaking but it didn't matter, because soon it would all be over.

He took the tip of Parvis's cock into his mouth and Parvis gasped like he hadn't been expecting it. Strife grabbed one of Parvis's wrists and yanked his hand to his head. Parvis grabbed a handful of his hair, and the last thread of thought slipped down into the dark trench in Strife's mind.

His eyes drifted closed. The world was simple again. His mouth was filling with spit and blood and the taste of Parvis's cock, but he stayed still. When further instruction failed to come, he whimpered quietly and tugged on Parvis's wrist.

He heard Parvis suck in a breath, then sigh it out again, resigned. He pulled Strife's head forward, gently. Strife responded to the touch, letting Parvis guide him through every motion. He rolled his tongue against the shaft, suckled at the tip, listened and responded to every sigh and stifled moan until Parvis's hand tightened in his hair and his mouth filled with salt. He didn't move away until Parvis pulled him off.

Parvis sank to the floor, out of breath and still shaking. Strife crawled into his lap and nuzzled against his neck. His hands plucked at the fabric of Parvis's shirt, mostly of their own accord, drawing comfort from the motion.

Arms folded around him, warm and strong enough to keep the nightmares out. Strife dropped into sleep like a stone.

* * *

 

He woke up in Parvis's bed with a splitting headache and a foul taste in his mouth. He tottered to the connecting bathroom and washed his mouth out with the bottle of grain alcohol Parvis kept next to the sink. There was no mirror, so Strife fixed his hair and clothes as best as he could by feel before heading out into the main part of the house.

Parvis was sitting at the kitchen table. He'd made breakfast—toast and fruit—and had put a second plate in front of the empty chair at the table.

Strife did not look at him on his way to the front door.

"You can't keep doing this," Parvis said.

Strife stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

"You don't have to let me in," he pointed out.

"Yes," Parvis said, "I do."

"Whatever," Strife muttered, and pulled the door open. The morning air was brisk, but not cold enough to set him off again.

"Can you honestly say that, if I didn't let you in, you _wouldn't_ come back with pitchforks and torches?" Parvis asked.

Strife stopped again. Something hot and violent was thrashing in his chest, trying to claw its way out.

"You're not that important," he said.

Parvis sighed. Against his better judgement, Strife stood and waited for him to speak.

"There's still . . . bits missing," Parvis admitted. "Gaps, spaces, whole days just . . . _gone._ Whole _days_ where I don't know where I was, or what I was doing . . . or what was done to me."

"Yeah, I don't _care_ about you, Parvis," Strife said, his lip curling.

 _"I know!"_ Parvis cried, and the sudden noise made Strife's whole body tense up. "I'm asking you to care about _yourself!_ If you won't look at what's broken—if you won't even _admit_ that something's broken—it's never going to get fixed, Strife! You can't keep _doing_ this!"

Strife stood perfectly still, waiting for his heart rate to drop below a hum.

"Please," Parvis said, much more softly. "Stop doing this."

Strife walked out and let the door swing closed behind him. He walked home with his head down, hoping no one would see him.

* * *

 

His skin still pruney and raw from an hour-long shower, Strife sidled into Nano's noodle bar with his eyes on the floor. There was the customary moment of silence where everyone noticed him and cranked their internal filters up to maximum. He slid into the corner booth and waited.

A coffee was placed in front of him. He risked a glance up. Nano's expression was refreshingly annoyed, a welcome change from the pity he got from everyone else.

"Should I put it on your tab?" she asked sourly.

Strife fished the little leather pouch out of his pocket and handed it to her.

"Nobody has a tab anymore," he said.

Nano opened the bag. Very slowly, the annoyed expression slid off her face.

"Where did you get these?" she asked.

"Quarry finally hit a vein," he said. He neglected to mention that this had been three days ago. Time did not get on well with Strife.

"And _why_ have you decided to pay off everyone's tab?"

"What else am I going to buy with them? We don't _have_ an economy. You're just going to use them to buy ingredients from Lomadia and Nilesy, who are just going to use them to buy fertilizer from Sips who will buy a bunch of mushrooms from Zoey and Fiona, who are going to give them back to me to make machinery since nobody else around here can be _bothered_ to do anything _useful."_ He wheezed in a breath. "It's a joke and it's completely pointless."

"If I didn't feed you, you'd starve," Nano said. "How's that for useful?"

"Not true."

 _"Very_ true, Strife, unless anything's changed in the last three months, and I know it hasn't. Not for you, anyway."

Something in her tone drew his gaze up sharply. She had her arms folded and was giving him a look so _knowing_ it made his stomach turn.

He picked up his coffee and went home.

* * *

 

Halfway through Strife's weekly toothbrush-cleaning of the inside of the disassembler, a knock came at the door.

"No," he snapped, raising his voice to be heard through the walls. The house was small, and he kept his worktable on the other side of the wall from the front corridor.

"Strife," Kirin said, "it's me."

 _"No,"_ Strife said again, more vehemently.

"Look, I know you don't really want to talk to me, but I made cookies and—"

Strife threw down the toothbrush and snatched up the disassembler. He stalked to the front corridor in a red haze. He yanked the door open and jammed the naked head of the disassembler under Kirin's chin.

 _"No,"_ he growled.

Kirin blinked down at him. "But—" he began.

Strife clicked a button on the disassembler's shaft. Redstone sparked in its head and the blue casing flashed white-hot. Kirin yelped and hopped back. Other than a slightly singed beard, he appeared unharmed.

 _"No,"_ Strife repeated. The springs around his bones were winding up again, the key in his back turning and turning. He wasn't shaking, yet, but he could feel it coming.

"Jeez, fine," Kirin said, shrugging and looking away. "Just trying to do something nice for you. You don't have to get violent."

Strife neither moved nor responded, continuing to stare him down, the disassembler humming in his hands. Kirin muttered something about _crazy_ and wandered off. Strife watched him go, struggling to keep his breathing under control. He shut the door and put his back against it, hugging the disassembler to his chest. His knees jellified, and he sank to the floor.

Somewhere inside him, a spring snapped from the tension, and suddenly he was sobbing, flooded with something too violent and intense to be named, a tempest in the teapot of his body. No matter how much he poured out, in tears, in sobs, in helpless shaking, the storm would not abate. He banged his head against the door, three, four times, but even the pain couldn't make him stop crying.

It took hours for the storm to blow itself out, and even then it was only because Strife himself was too exhausted to continue. He somehow managed to get himself to bed, though he ached all over and there was a severe crick in his back, just between his shoulders.

Absently, he surmised that that was where the key went in, and maybe it only hurt because he hadn't managed to unwind it all the way.

Exhausted as he was, he lay awake for hours, staring up at the ceiling, the atomic disassembler heavy on his chest. His thoughts continued to eddy, growing darker and darker as afternoon slid into evening and then into night.

_'No' is not a word you say to me, my pet._

Strife got up and hurried out, not even bothering to put on his shoes. He made a beeline for the bright windows of Nano's shop and tapped on the glass when he arrived. She unlocked the door for him, then went back to her spot behind the counter.

"Already threw out today's coffee," she mentioned, as he shuffled to his spot at the corner booth. "I could start a fresh pot, if you like."

He nodded. His tongue felt far too thick and heavy to form any words.

Minutes passed, he wasn't sure how many. He'd counted up to one thousand and fifty-one in primes by the time Nano brought over two cups of hot coffee and slid into the booth across from him.

"I could start you up some food, too, if you like," she offered. "I'm betting you haven't eaten today."

Strife shrugged. Eating seemed like a far-fetched idea when his stomach was a hard knot of iron.

"Chicken noodle soup? Maybe just the broth, you're looking a bit peaky."

He shrugged again. His hands were tight on the shaft of the disassembler, lying across his lap.

Nano sighed. "A yes or a no would be helpful," she said.

"Sure," Strife managed. The word tasted sour, and left an uncomfortable heat in its wake.

"Okay," said Nano. "I'll be right back."

She got up and headed to the bar. While she bustled about behind the counter, she kept up a running monologue that filled the silence like gentle rain.

"Apparently, we've got neighbors somewhere round here," she said. "And not testificates, either. Of course, I've only got Kirin's word on this, since he's the only one who's been out far enough to meet them, but he _did_ say they weren't _his sort of people,_ so I suppose _I'll_ like them well enough, at least. I'm not sure if they've got anything to trade, but apparently they'll be round to visit sooner or later. They've got some kind of business model, God only knows how, although maybe there's more people this side of the ocean than we thought. _Anyway._ Zoey was thinking you and Sips ought to handle them whenever they turn up, you two being the only businessmen we've got to hand."

The stovetop clicked rapidly for a second before the gas caught. Something went _glug._

"Speaking of. Sips says we've got a very passable economy for a seven-person community. Well. Nine, technically, but I don't count Kirin or—well, anyway. I said to him, it's all very well for you, you're not the sole source of currency, and he said, _uhh, well, y'know, just 'cause Strife's diggin' up diamonds, y'know, he's not the big guy all of a sudden."_

Strife pinched his lips together. Smiling would have felt, somehow, dishonest.

"So I asked him why _he_ wasn't digging up diamonds, and he said it wasn't his job and anyway they all make their way back to you and get used for actual _things,_ y'know, useful things, so it didn't really matter. I asked him if we should just be communists since we are, after all, a _community,_ and he made a whole _assortment_ of offended noises. It was really quite funny."

The cabinet doors squeaked as they were opened and closed. A wooden spoon scraped the bottom of a pot.

"I know Fiona thinks trying to keep up an economy when there's only seven of us is ridiculous. I don't think Lomadia and Nilesy are much into it, either, but as Nilesy's still offering to build people pools for—oh, whatever silly reason he's got—I suppose they're more willing to fool with it. Personally I only charge for anything for the look of the thing, keeps people from getting greedy. Not that anybody who comes here is greedy, but just in case."

The stove clicked again, and there was the sound of pouring liquid. Nano returned to the table and placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of Strife.

"There you are! This one's on the house." She slid back into her seat and sipped her coffee.

Strife picked up a spoon from the table and prodded at the soup with it, swirled it around in the bowl, watched the little circles of grease drift around on the surface.

"D'you want to talk about it?" Nano asked quietly.

Strife shook his head. Tears were trying to gather in his eyes. He sniffed and cleared his throat.

"Okay," said Nano. "Would you like me to stop talking?"

He shook his head again, more definitively.

"Gotcha." She stretched her arms over her head and leaned back, stretching out her legs. Her feet came close to, but did not touch, his left calf.

"Well, let's see. I was thinking I could do with some renovations to this place. The attic's a bit leaky and of course the basement is a shambles. Not the mention the stairs, my God, they're a nightmare and a half. I was thinking _maybe_ I should make the ceiling higher, too, but then I thought: no, 'cause then Kirin wouldn't clip his stupid antlers on the lights anymore and I'd _hate_ to deprive everyone of that comedy show."

Strife glanced up at her. The smile was pulling at his lips again, and he was having a hard time fighting it back down.

Nano saw him looking and grinned. She'd laced her hands behind her head, the very picture of ease.

"I'm not sure you've ever seen him do it. It's hilarious. It's a shame I had to get rid of the chandelier, because he got tangled up in that one for _hours._ I've never heard milder cursing in all my life." She affected a dry, clipped voice and a hard-edged accent. _"Oh, darn, oh, jeez. I'm really sorry about this, oh crumbs."_

Strife snorted and ducked his head, pressing his knuckles to his lips to hide the grin.

"Sorry I missed it," he said.

Nano nudged his calf with her foot. "I'm sorry you did, too. Maybe when I do the renovations, I'll put the chandelier back in and you can hang about until he shows up."

"I could . . . help," he mentioned carefully. "With that."

"Could you? That'd be fantastic. There'd be free food involved, of course."

Strife took a sip of coffee, his head starting to fill up with schematics.

"First thing you'll want is a pointed roof," he said. "It rains enough here, the one you have is probably sagging already, and that's why it's leaking. I could do cherry wood to match the exterior, if you want."

"I was thinking something paler," Nano said. "Bit of contrast, so it doesn't just look like a big red chode."

Strife spat coffee all over the table. Nano cackled.

 _"Why_ would you even _think_ of that?" he demanded, his voice squeaking.

"Because I'm a wicked harlot with a filthy mind," she bragged, "and I worked with Lalna for _far_ too long to not see dicks in everything."

Strife looked away and coughed carefully. Nano sighed.

"Oh, don't _you_ start. I get so sick and tired of not even being able to _mention_ him without people giving me that look."

"What look?" Strife said innocently.

 _"That one._ That pity-face. I hate it. Do I miss him? Yes, and that's why I like talking about him, and why I hate that stupid _look,_ because it makes me feel like I'm not supposed to be happy when I'm thinking about him. And I _want_ to remember the good times. More than anything, I want to remember the good times. So don't _pity_ me, Strife, because I don't like it."

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Nano sighed, shifted in her seat.

"I forgive you," she said. "Now. About that roof."


	2. Chapter 2

The desert camp was bustling as afternoon slid into evening, and Zoey had to nudge her way through the crowd with the bag of groceries hugged to her chest. The air was dusty, and gave the light a red-gold cast that sort of, almost, made her feel like she was walking through a fairy-tale.

The crowds cleared as she neared the edge of town, and by the time she got to the walled-off corner where the camp was set up, there was almost no one else on the street.

She pushed aside the flap of the main tent and ducked inside.

"They were out of seeds," she said, setting the bag down on the countertop, "but I managed to get everything else. Well, almost everything. Did you really _need_ bones, because they didn't have any just bones and I really didn't want to buy, like, meat and stuff—"

"It's fine, Zoey," said Rythian.

"Oh, good! But I did manage to get almost everything else, anyway, and it's all over here when you need it—if you need it—what was it you needed it for?"

Rythian said something about _fundamental mechanics of the universe._

"You're mumbling again," she told him.

"Sorry," he said. He had his back to her, and was engrossed in his notes. She could tell because of the horrendous mess he'd made.

She crossed over to him and peered over his shoulder.

"Whatcha working—" she began, and stopped.

Rythian had laid one hand, knuckles-down, on the table. The bowl of his palm was full of blood.

"Oh my gosh, you're hurt!" she cried.

Rythian raised his head a fraction.

"What?" he said, blinking.

Now that she looked closer, she could see that the edges of the pool were thick and scabby. The wound, wherever it was, clearly was no longer producing blood.

"I'll just, um," she said, backing away a step, "I'll just get you something to clean that up with."

"No," he said, more sharply than Zoey felt was necessary. He paused, then softened. "No, don't worry about it."

"You're being sort of creepy," she said.

He flexed his fingers. The edges of the blood pool cracked and crumbled.

"Sorry," he said. "I had . . . an idea."

"It's really not sanitary, leaving it like that," she went on. "And it's kind of a lot of blood, isn't it? You should probably wash it, at least, or—or something. What happened?"

"It's not important," he said. "And it's not _that_ much blood, really."

"Yeah, but you're not supposed to get hurt," she said.

Rythian turned his head, perhaps only just now noticing that she was in the room. His eyes were unfocused.

"What?" he said, frowning.

"Nothing," Zoey said innocently. "I'll get you a cloth or something. Bandage? Bandage would be good."

"No, I'll . . . handle it," he said. He got to his feet slowly, as though all his joints had rusted. "Did you get the carrots and seeds?"

"Um," said Zoey, "carrots yes, seeds no. And no bones, either."

He waved his uninjured hand, crossing to the wash basin on the counter. He dunked his other hand into the water and started scrubbing at his palm with his thumb. The water quickly turned an opaque, rusty brown.

"That's fine, I can get them myself. You're _sure_ no seeds?"

"I looked everywhere."

He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Very quickly, apparently," he said.

"Rythian," she said, as gently as she could, "I've been gone four hours."

He froze, just for an instant, but it was such an unnatural stillness that it seemed to last much longer. He turned his eyes back to his hands and ducked his head.

"Must've lost track of time," he mumbled.

"It's fine!" she assured him. "It's okay, I mean, it's not really like we've got anything _pressing_ to do, I mean, right? So no worries!"

"I wanted to show you how to make the thaumomomom . . . mometer," he said. He took a moment to pretend he hadn't stumbled over the word before continuing. "But if it's been four hours, we don't have enough daylight left."

"Oh, that's all right," Zoey said. "Tomorrow, maybe. Um. Why've you got . . . blood all over your hand?"

He winced and made a noncommittal noise.

"There was an . . . incident. With an essentia phial. It really isn't important, honestly. I just . . . had an idea and got distracted before I could clean it up properly."

"Uh-huh," said Zoey, noting the complete lack of broken glass. "What sort of idea?"

He was still scrubbing his hand, but absently now, as though he'd forgotten he was doing it and had just hadn't bothered to stop.

"Oh, just a—a theory. A hypothesis, really."

"You're avoiding the question," she pointed out. "And I think your hand's probably clean by now."

"Hm? Oh." He wiped his hands off on his shirt and went right back to his desk, leafing through the scattered papers. "I had it written down here _somewhere._ I could swear I wrote it down."

Zoey sighed. "I really wish you'd explain what you're talking about."

"I will, I will," he promised, waving her objection away. There was a deep, straight cut in the palm of his hand.

"Some phial," she muttered.

He looked up sharply, and his full and undivided attention came down on her with a physical weight.

"Did you say something?" he asked.

"Me? No, nothing."

"Because I thought you said _some phial."_

"Must've been your ears."

"I'm not _lying_ to you, Zoey."

"I never said that! No one said that. You're acting really strange, are you all right?"

He considered for a moment, then went back to searching through his notes.

"I had it here _somewhere,_ I swear I did," he said, shaking his head.

"Couldn't you just . . . _tell_ me?"

Rythian sighed. "You won't like it," he admitted.

"I don't like not knowing things, either. Especially when you won't tell me them because you think I won't like them."

"You _really_ won't like it."

"Okay, so I won't like it. Tell me."

He was turning papers between his hands, clearly not looking at them anymore. He didn't seem to be looking at anything, in fact, unless he could see through solid walls.

"It's just that, well, life has an energy all its own, right? And if there was some way to _use_ it, to channel it, it would be so much faster and so much less—less _boring_ than this thaumaturgy stuff."

"And . . . what's that got to do with you having blood all over your hand?"

He fidgeted. "There's a lot of power in blood," he said.

Zoey made a face. "Ew," she said.

"What? There's nothing wrong with blood."

"When it's on the _inside,_ yeah."

"I was just thinking that with a few minor alterations, some bindings, maybe an unstable node to get the universe to the proper thinness, I could make it work—"

"Wait, hold on, because I thought you just said something about altering the universe?"

"It would have to be heavily ritualistic, working with anything alive always has to be—"

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

"A bound implement of some kind would be a good start, and somewhere to store the essence, of course—an altar, maybe?—I'll have to figure out the runes first—"

_"Rythian."_

He looked up, bright-eyed but clearly not entirely present.

"Yes?" he said.

"Could you, maybe . . . not? Could you not play about with blood and—and awful things? Because I really don't like it, and I really don't like thinking about the universe being thin, and I'm really scared because you had blood all over your hand and you're not worried about it and _I_ am, which is sort of normal, but you're not worrying about _me_ being worried about _you,_ which isn't normal at all, and it's worrying me, and I'd like you to please stop. Okay?"

The light went out of his expression, and he shrank by two sizes. He looked over to his notes and fiddled with them.

"Of course," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, Zoey. I got a little carried away. It won't happen again."

"No—it's all right, I don't mind you getting carried away, it's sort of charming, really, just . . . not with this."

His face darkened further. He picked up the quill and began absently stabbing it into the wood.

"You don't mean that," he said.

"I'm pretty sure I do," she retorted.

"But you don't _mean_ it," he repeated. "About me being . . . _charming,_ or whatever."

She bristled. "Rythian—"

"It's fine, I mean, of course it's fine, I just wish you wouldn't, you know, lie to my face."

"I'm not _lying,_ Rythian."

"No, of course you're not. You never were. I was just too _stupid_ to see—"

"Stop. Stop it, right now. We've had this conversation a _million_ times, and I'm tired of it. I'm really tired of it, all right? I'm tired of hearing you beat yourself up over— _nothing!_ I think you're charming, and funny, and very sweet, and I'm not suddenly _lying_ just because I've got a girlfriend now!"

"Who said anything about _suddenly?"_ Rythian said nastily.

"Oh, for—" She broke off into a frustrated squeak, turning her back on him. "I really, honestly care about you. All right? You're, like, my best friend, and I'm your apprentice, and that's not changed, nothing's _changed,_ and I just don't understand why you're so . . . _mean_ about it."

She wished the tears and the lump in her throat would go back where they came from. This conversation always ended in tears and it was getting unbearably old.

"It's probably because I'm a jealous _idiot_ who has nothing better to do with my time than make other people miserable."

"Stop it! Rythian, _stop it._ If you can't say anything helpful, then just—just stop talking! I am so _sick_ of hearing you do this to yourself, I'm so tired of it! Please, could you _please,_ just _try_ to go a little easier on yourself? Could you just _try_ to be a _little_ reasonable about this?"

There was a silence. Zoey turned around and glared at Rythian. He shrugged.

"I didn't have anything helpful to say," he said.

Zoey threw her hands up and stalked out. She really didn't feel like crying in front of him today.

The town was settling down for the night, which made crossing it relatively easier. The stalls had all closed, rolled down their shutters and locked all their doors, and the streets were inhabited mainly by the stragglers from the market, heading home under heavy burdens. The night folk were only just starting to poke their heads out of doors; Zoey had no idea what they did all night, since she was rarely ever awake, but she gathered they bought and sold things that shouldn't be looked at in daylight.

At her knock, the door of a nondescript little house swung open. The woman on the other side of the door raised her eyebrows.

"What's he done _this_ time?" she asked, standing aside to let Zoey in. Once the door was closed, she took her hand.

Zoey shook her head. "I really don't want to talk about it right now."

"Okay," she said, squeezing Zoey's hand, "we won't talk about it right now. I've only just sat down to dinner, if you'd like to join me."

"I wouldn't want to intrude or anything—"

"You're not intruding. You're never intruding. I'd much rather feed you than have to eat alone."

Zoey smiled and nudged her with her shoulder. "Thanks, Fiona," she said.

Fiona gave her a peck on the lips. Despite herself, Zoey blushed.

"Anytime," Fiona said. "You can stay the night, too, if you like."

"I. Um. I would—yes, I would like that a lot. Like, a very lot."

"A _very_ lot, wow!"

"Shush, you know what I meant."

"It's a good phrase, I like it. I might even go so far as to say I like it a very lot."

"You're _horrible,"_ Zoey said, and kissed her cheek.

"Absolutely the worst," Fiona agreed, and kissed her lips.

Zoey put a hand on Fiona's hip and drew her closer. Fiona looped her arms over Zoey's shoulders and tangled a hand in her hair. Her lips were soft, her body warm and supple. The two of them overbalanced and Zoey ended up leaning against the wall with Fiona draped against her.

"Dinner could, probably, wait," Fiona mentioned, trailing a hand down to Zoey's chest.

Zoey hummed an agreement and squeezed Fiona's ass. She squeaked, and pressed closer, falling back into the kiss.

By the time they finally made it to the kitchen, the food had long ago gotten cold.

Zoey couldn't have minded less.

* * *

 

"It's just," Zoey said, over breakfast, "I'm worried."

"About?" Fiona asked, looking across the table at her.

She sighed. "I don't know. Him? Me? Us? Everyone, really. I mean, I sort of knew he was, y'know. . . ."

"Madly in love with you?" Fiona guessed.

Zoey flushed. "It's not like it's his _fault,"_ she mumbled.

"Of course not. Anyone would fall madly in love with you. _I_ did."

"Stop," she scolded, her blush deepening.

"Sorry. Wrong time?"

"A bit."

"Sorry. Is there anything I could do to help?"

Zoey shrugged. "I dunno. I sort of thought he'd get over it, y'know, when he saw that nothing was really different—because he gets all dramatic about everything and I knew he was going to take it sort of hard—but nothing's gotten any better and I'm sort of wondering if I'm, like, making it worse? I'm trying not to, I'm really trying not to, but I just don't know what to _do."_

Nodding, Fiona said, "It's a difficult sort of a thing. I can't really offer any advice, I'm afraid. Far as I'm concerned, he's being a twat and it's supremely shitty of him to be taking it out on you and I'd box him about the ears if you'd let me."

"Somehow, I don't think that'd help, but . . . thanks." She sighed and prodded the puny fruit on her plate. "I should probably be headed back soon. Charge the arm, all that."

"D'you want me to walk you back?" Fiona asked.

Zoey shook her head. "I think that'd . . . cause more trouble than it's worth. But thank you! I mean, I would like you to, just, I don't really want to deal with what would happen on the other end. Of that. Um. But I really appreciate you offering."

Fiona poked at her toast for a moment.

"Zoey," she said at last. "I was thinking, y'know, if maybe you'd like to . . . to move in with me. Not right away!" she added hastily. "But just, at some point. Maybe soon, or not, whichever you want. But I just . . . it's really shitty that you've got to go back to _that_ every night—or most nights, anyway—"

"Rythian's not a _that,"_ Zoey said.

"He's acting like one," Fiona responded. "I'm just saying, you've been staying over more and more often, and maybe it'd be nice for both of us if you could stay over all the time."

"I—" Zoey began, and stopped. She took a deep breath and sighed it out again. "I'll think about it. It sort of . . . feels like, I dunno, abandoning like, a puppy or something."

"I'm sure he can take care of himself," Fiona said.

_"I'm_ not," she replied. "Look, I'll think about it. I'll . . . talk it over with him. Not because he's got any say in it, but just . . . I dunno, because he's my friend and I want him to know what's going on and why."

"Well, all right," Fiona said. "And, y'know, if you decide you don't want to, or don't want to yet, or anything, y'know, that's fine, I just thought I'd offer, since . . . yeah."

Zoey reached across the table and took her hand. "I really appreciate it," she said.

Fiona gave her a smile that was probably supposed to look genuine. "It's my pleasure, honestly."

"Still." She squeezed her hand, then lifted it up and kissed her knuckles. Fiona's smile got a lot more genuine.

"Yeah, well," Fiona said. She was blushing, just the slightest tint of pink to her cheeks.

"Hey," Zoey said. "I love you lots, okay?"

Fiona's smile cracked wide open, into a stellar grin that outshone the sun.

"Love you, too," she said. She cleared her throat. "D'you mind helping with the washing up again?"

"You're just trying to keep me here longer."

"I'm just trying not to do dishes."

"Ah, so the truth's finally come out."

"Has it? Good for the truth."

There was a beat of silence, and then they both burst out laughing.

* * *

 

She had just stepped inside the walls of their camp when the explosion went off. She started running before the shrapnel even came down, ducking around machinery and esoteric devices to where the plume of dust was rising up.

Rythian staggered out of the plume, his scarf pulled up over his mouth, coughing and swatting at the smoke and dust. He turned to regard it and sagged. When he straightened up, he turned his back on the plume and caught sight of Zoey.

He froze, and again, it seemed to last much longer than it really did. He shouldn't have been able to balance like that, halfway through a step. When he came unfrozen, he looked back and forth between the plume and Zoey four times. He pointed to the dust and smoke, from which Zoey could now hear a faint crackling noise.

"That—was not my fault," he said.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Me? Fine." He pulled his scarf back down. He was three shades lighter underneath it. "Nothing a shower won't fix. How're you?"

"I'm . . . wondering what just blew up?" she guessed.

"Oh, _that._ Um. You remember those bags of gunpowder?"

She put a hand over her eyes. "How?"

_"Well,_ it turns out you shouldn't dump one out and then test your warding candles. _To be fair,"_ he went on, as she opened her mouth to scold him, "it was an hour later, so I thought all the dust had settled."

_"Why_ did you dump out a whole bag of gunpowder?" she demanded, resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

Rythian frowned, tipped his head to one side, and looked up at the sky as though the answer might be written there.

"It . . . seemed like a good idea at the time?" he hazarded.

"This is all backwards," Zoey grumbled. "I'm not supposed to have to worry about you."

"You don't have to worry! I'm fine, everything's fine. It was just one little explosion."

_"Little?"_

"Look, it looks worse than it is. As soon as the dust settles, you'll see. In the mean time, I can teach you how to make that thaumomom . . . ometer."

"Does it involve dumping out big bags of gunpowder?"

"No, unfortunately it's pretty boring."

"Honestly, at this point, I'm okay with boring. Boring is okay. Especially compared to blowing up, which I would really rather not do." She paused. "At least, not today. Maybe some other time."

"Fair enough," Rythian said. "Once we have the thaum—the thing, I can make you goggles of revealing. You'll like them, they're very tacky. Stylish! Stylish, is what I meant."

"What do they do?" she asked.

Rythian launched off on an explanation, interrupting himself every four words with a bit of background information that was just as incomprehensible as the things it was backing up. He started off towards the main tent, waving his hands as though picking his words out of the air. Zoey followed, nodding and asking all the appropriate I-was-definitely-listening-to-you questions.

She decided not to mention the blood on his fingers, since it had gone so poorly last time.

Eventually, Rythian wrapped up his explanation, standing on the other side of the velvet-topped table where they'd been doing the vast majority of their magic. He was looking at her expectantly.

"Okay," she said, looking down at the table. "So . . . what do I do?"

Rythian rubbed his face, smearing soot and blood on it. He paused, looked at his hands, and wiped them off on his trousers, then wiped his face on his scarf.

"Just . . . there's a paper, there, see?" he said, pointing. Zoey picked up the sheet of parchment, on which several symbols had been scribbled.

"Got it," she said.

"See at the top where it says what you need?" His voice was rather strained.

"Oh, right! Yeah, I remember this. So, okay, glass. . . ."

She started hunting around the tent for supplies. Rythian went and sat down at his research desk, moving like his bones had all rusted.

"I _think_ that's everything," Zoey said, when she'd assembled a small pile on the table. "So now what?"

Rythian did not answer. Zoey looked over at him.

"Rythian?"

Again, there was no reply. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. Zoey went over and prodded him in the shoulder. He jerked awake with a snort.

"What? Sorry?" he said.

"Did you sleep last night?" she asked.

"Well," he said, avoiding her eyes, "not . . . _exactly,_ no."

"What were you _doing_ all night?"

He acquired a deeply discomfited expression and fidgeted. "It's _really_ not important," he said.

"Rythian."

"I got a little caught up. It's not like I was _trying_ to stay up all night, I was just—figuring something out and I sort of, just, forgot to sleep, that's all. I'm not even tired."

He yawned massively, hiding it in his charred, bloodied hands.

"Go sleep, Rythian," Zoey said sternly.

"No. No! I'm fine, really, I promise. I'll just—while you're working, I'm just going to make myself some coffee. It's really not a problem. Do you have everything?"

For a moment, she considered pushing the issue, but in the end all she said was, "Yeah, I think so. What do I do with it all?"

"Just out of curiosity," Rythian said, getting up and crossing to the kitchen counter, "would you say the percentage of time you're actually listening to me is closer to five, or three?"

"I always listen!" Zoey objected. "It just . . . doesn't really stick, is all. Because you're bad at explaining."

_"Excuse_ me?"

"Well, you are," she said. "I only listen five percent of the time 'cause all the rest of the time you're just sort of talking and it all sounds like silliness."

"I'll have you know that I am an immensely powerful being of great dignity and—and austerity, and I have never once been silly in my entire life."

Zoey cast him a withering look. He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"No thanks," she said. "But are you going to tell me how to make this thaumomomometer or what?"

"Are you going to listen to more than five percent of what I tell you?"

"If more than five percent is something other than _blah blah blah."_

"Ohoh. Ahah. And the very next time your arm needs repairs, I hope you're prepared to explain it to me five times, because I'm about ready to give you a taste of your own medicine."

"I'd love to!" Zoey chirped. "It's really super interesting when you get into it—"

Rythian put his head in his hands and pressed his knuckles to the nearest cupboard.

"Okay," he said, muffled. "You win."

She frowned. "Was there a contest on?" She brightened. "Ooh! Are there prizes?"

Rythian mumbled something utterly unintelligible and put the kettle on.

 


	3. Chapter 3

In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. Strife cursed mildly under his breath and hurried to get it. Soon, the smell of coffee had filled the whole house. Strife washed the greenish smears of copper off his hands before he poured himself a mug of coffee, wrapping his hands around it and leaning against the counter.

It had been a remarkably easy morning. He still wasn't quite over it. He kept expecting the shivering, aching tension to creep up on him, to ambush him around a corner or drop from above at the slightest provocation.

He ran through the night before, searching for an explanation for this sudden ease.

Nano had walked him home after another hour of idle chit-chat. He had, eventually, eaten the broth she'd given him, mostly because it was there and he was so caught-up in architectural plans that he didn't notice himself eating it. The two of them had lingered on his doorstep, talking about nothing, for what could have been five minutes or fifteen. It had started raining, and they had parted ways, and Strife had gone to bed and fallen asleep immediately. He had not dreamed.

He was forced to conclude, after rigorous examination, that his wellbeing was just as inexplicable as his constant bouts of misery.

(Unless, of course, Nano had drugged his food; a wild prospect, but not impossible. He would have to ask her what she'd used and start synthesizing it en masse.)

There was a knock at the door. He set his coffee down and called, "Coming!"

Lomadia stood just outside, her hat slightly askew on her head.

"Hi," she said. "Um. I dunno if anybody told you about this, but we've got some, um, visitors, of a sort, and Nano was hoping you and Sips might be able to handle them."

Strife raised his eyebrows. "Right _now?"_

She licked her lips and inclined her head. "Er, yeah, just about."

"Are they gonna take much handling?" he asked, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and folding his arms.

_"I_ don't know, I've never met them. All I know is, Kirin said he was going to get them and then he did that _thing_ he does and now we're all sort of scrambling to keep up."

"Of course he did," Strife grumbled. "Well, what do you want _me_ to do?"

Her face pinched with worry. "I—well, you haven't got to do anything, if you don't want to, of course—"

"I know," he snapped, cutting her off. "I'm asking what you _want."_

She shrank back, holding up her hands in surrender. "We just wanted to have somebody about who knew anything about dealing with business stuff so we didn't get screwed over," she said, all the words coming out in a rush.

"You think that's likely?" he asked.

"N-no, not exactly, but it's good to be prepared, I suppose."

"And Sips couldn't do that on his own?"

"Sips doesn't, um, have quite the same sort of, er, conviction—"

Something clicked in Strife's head.

"You want a bouncer," he said.

"I wouldn't say _bouncer,_ exactly, but if things do go wrong you do, um, _sort of_ have a massive arsenal under your house."

He bristled. "I do _not,"_ he said.

The look she gave him was full of pity. "We all know about it, Strife," she said gently. "It's fine, nobody minds."

"How?" he demanded, incensed.

"All those machines have got to be running _something,"_ Lomadia pointed out, gesturing towards his back yard. "And, well, there's not much else you could be making, is there? Nobody minds."

"Does _Kirin_ know?" he pushed. He was digging his fingernails into his biceps. He'd left the disassembler in the bedroom.

"Er, I s'pose—"

"Good," Strife said. "Because they're all for him."

Lomadia frowned. "What would he need—"

"Let me clarify: they are for _me,_ to _use_ on him," he growled.

Her eyes got very wide. "D'you think you'll _need_ to?"

"I didn't think I'd _need_ to fight Rythian, and you can see how well _that_ turned out."

At mention of the name, her jaw and fists both clenched.

"Kirin isn't like that," she said.

"Right now," he allowed. "He could wipe us off the face of the planet without breaking a sweat. I figured it was only fair if I could do the same to him."

"One: he's not going to, because he's utterly useless," Lomadia said. "And two: I'm not sure all the nukes in the _world_ could kill him, anyway."

"It's worth a shot."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Look. What it's for is your business, and it's . . . whatever. All I'm asking is that you bring a bit of it to make sure our visitors don't hurt anybody. All right? Is that all right with you?"

"Fine," said Strife, and shut the door on her.

_"Strife—"_ she called, exasperated, but he was already off into the main part of the house, fuming.

Of course, he _knew_ he couldn't kill Kirin. If Rythian hadn't been able to, with all his tremendous power, all his guile and cunning, what chance did Strife stand? And he knew for a fact that Rythian hadn't been able to kill Kirin, because—

_Oh, I can't touch_ _ him, _ _my pet. But I can make do with you, for now. You brought him here. You'll do._

He braced himself against the wall, all the air gone out of him. His vision swam, and his skin was crawling. The key in his back was trying to drill clean through him.

"He. Is. Dead," he gasped to himself. "He can't do anything because he's _dead._ It's _over."_

_Would you like it to stop, my pet?_

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and sank to his knees. He forced himself to breathe. He didn't have time for this. There was work to be done, he was _needed_ for once, and he'd be damned if he was going to let Rythian, however dead, make him useless again.

Strife pushed himself to his feet. His eyes ached, and his shoulder had started to twinge again—

_Bite all you like, my pet. I think you'll find my teeth are rather sharper._

His stomach lurched. He tripped on the stairs down to the basement and landed hard on his hands. The shock went all the way up to his elbows, left him smarting and tingling.

He knelt on the floor for a good minute, learning to breathe again. His whole body was singing with its internal tensions, the buzz of adrenaline thick in his veins. Still, the hissing, tarry voice at the edge of his hearing had gone quiet, jolted out of him by the fall. Slowly, he picked himself up and shook out his hands.

His so-called _arsenal_ was pathetic. He had one plasma rifle, four pistols with one magazine each, a mining laser with a battery so small that it could only squeeze off two full-power shots before it died; there was an energy sword, mostly because he'd needed the practice with circuitry; his messy first attempts at explosives, locked in a steel case; the lead-lined safe that held the puny lumps of uranium the quarry had dug up, not nearly enough for a reactor to run on; and, on the work table, a four-foot-long cattle-prod, because whatever remained of his sense of humor had survived by sticking itself to the underside of calculated violence.

He took the plasma rifle and one of the pistols—the first because it looked intimidating, and the second because it killed people. When those were settled on his person, he went back upstairs and collected the disassembler. His hands stopped aching when they wrapped around it.

Thus equipped, he steadied himself one last time, slugged down the last of his cold coffee, and headed out to Nano's.

* * *

 

There were three strangers sitting at the bar. Everyone else was gathered around them, watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to grave suspicion. Outside, a light drizzle had started to fall, and Strife could already hear drips of water plinking around in the attic.

Lomadia and Nilesy were seated in the corner booth usually reserved for Strife. Nano was behind the bar. Zoey and Fiona had settled at a table by the window. Kirin was standing on the stairs, leaning his elbows on the banister and smiling faintly. His antlers nearly scraped the ceiling.

Sips was currently engaged in conversation with one of the strangers: a short, dark-skinned man with an enormous mustache and, upon further inspection, actual tusks. He was wearing a lab coat and bedroom slippers.

The other two were leaning over his shoulder, intent upon Sips and no less strange than their compatriot. One was tall, broad, and bearded; he scarcely fit onto the bar stool, and his cheap suit was stretched tight across his barrel chest. The other was lanky and, most notably, completely green.

A few people glanced up when Strife entered. The bell over the door jingled. All three of the strangers looked up. Something about the way they looked him up and down made his stomach turn.

"That's Strife," Sips said. "I was telling you about him, he's the guy with all the cool machines and stuff. Strife, this is Trott, Ross, and Smiffy."

"Yeah?" said the tusked one—Trott. Strife's hands tightened on his disassembler. "You're all tooled up, ain't you, sunshine?"

"Expecting a fight, mate?" Smiffy inquired, sliding out of his stool. He left a filmy residue on the bar where he'd been leaning on it.

"You touch me," Strife growled, "you die."

"Who said anything about touching?" Trott asked.

"I think you guys'd better leave him alone," Sips put in.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Lomadia muttered to Nilesy.

"Maybe you should've told Nano instead of me," he responded in kind.

"Oy," Nano said, talking over the two of them. "There's to be no fighting in my noodle bar."

"He started it," Smiffy pointed out, leveling an accusing finger at Strife.

"Boys," Kirin warned. "Play nice."

Something cracked just between Strife's shoulder blades. He went rigid, trying to keep himself under control, trying to stay focused on the moment. He saw Zoey and Fiona exchange a worried glance.

_"Play nice?"_ Ross demanded. "Play _nice?"_

"Dunno about you, boys," Smiffy said, "but I'm gettin' a little sick of the moose tellin' us what to do."

"Smiffy," Trott warned.

"You should listen to him," Kirin said. "I prefer _elk._ Moose antlers are different."

"Got a couple other things I could call you, mate," Smiffy offered. There were little bubbles rising up from his interior and scooting around on the surface of his skin.

"Awful _nasty_ things," Ross confirmed.

"Guys!" Trott said, banging a hand on the table. Strife started so violently it sent a spark of pain shooting all the way down his spine. "Stop picking fights! I've told you a _million_ times: we're not here to pick fights!"

"Yeah? Then why'd we bring the fuckin' swords, mate?" Smiffy demanded.

"He's got a point," Ross said. "Why _have_ we brought the swords?"

"In case anybody tried to pick a fight with _us,_ you twats."

"What, like fuckin' _Rambo_ over there?" Smiffy said, throwing a barbed glance at Strife.

He raised the disassembler a fraction, taking a half step back. Something pale and hungry flashed behind Smiffy's eyes, and his face unseamed into a wide smile.

"You're not _scared,_ are you?" Smiffy inquired, oozing forward a step. "All those bloody guns, you're not scared of little old _us?"_

"Lay off, Smiff," Trott said.

"Nah, mate, don't think I will. They've got a bunny for a bouncer! I'm gonna wear him like a pair of fuckin' slippers."

As one being, everyone in the restaurant got to their feet. Strife's back was pressed to the door, his heart thundering in his ears. He would have gone for the gun, but his hands were frozen to the disassembler.

Smiffy's smile slid off his face. Very slowly, he raised his hands, glancing around at the assembled—and now very obviously hostile—crowd.

"All right, all right," he said, backing down. "Learn to take a joke, Christ."

"Negotiations've broken down," Ross mumbled. Strife could have sworn he was smiling. "It's all gone to hell, Trotty!"

"Would you shut up?" Trott snapped. He turned to Sips. "Look, can we talk about this somewhere else? Somewhere we're _not_ about to get fuckin' lynched?"

"I wouldn't let them hurt you," Kirin said mildly.

"Oh, shut up," Lomadia snapped at him.

"What?" said Kirin. "I wouldn't."

"I think," Zoey said, "we've all got a bit out of hand, and we should probably all go home. Okay?"

"We're goin' with the moose," Trott said immediately, jerking a thumb at Kirin.

"Elk," he corrected.

"Whatever."

"Yeah, well, or we _will,_ soon as the fuckin' rabbit gets out of the door," Smiffy said. "Oy, rabbit. Move, ya twat."

Strife could no more have forced his body into motion than he could have willed himself to levitate.

_"I really think you should stop talking to him like that, mate,"_ Trott hissed.

"Strife," Zoey said, in the same careful voice used to coerce feral dogs into not ripping out one's throat. "Come on away from the door, okay? So they can leave. It'll be all right, I promise."

"Is something wrong with him?" Ross asked, frowning.

"No," Nano snapped. "And you three can leave through the back door."

"Oh, can we?" Smiffy demanded, rounding on her. "Shovin' us out the back like second-class citizens, are you?"

Suddenly, Kirin hissed in a sharp breath. It was almost mistakable for the sound a person in pain would make. He slapped at his hand, glared at the ceiling, then cleared his throat and straightened his shirt.

"Well, I'm going home," he declared. "I'm sure you can all sort this out amongst yourselves. See you soon!"

"What?" Trott demanded. "You can't _leave!"_

"Sorry," Kirin said, shrugging. There was an explosion of blue sparks, and he was gone.

Very slowly, every eye in the restaurant turned back to the three newcomers. They drew closer together. Trott cleared his throat and grinned hopefully.

"So, that uh—that back door then, right?"

"Second-class citizens, that's us!" Ross confirmed.

"Cowards," Smiffy accused sullenly. Ross grabbed his arm in one huge, meaty hand. There was a squelching noise and Smiffy flinched.

"I don't think now's the time, Smiff!" he said brightly.

Nano lifted up the hatch in the counter pointedly. The hinges squeaked, and the sound was like having a screwdriver carefully inserted into his ear. He had started shaking, at some point. Whatever had cracked between his shoulder blades was only being held together by his own tension, broken edges pressed against each other too tightly to budge.

The three newcomers filed out, treading on each other's heels and casting wary glances over their shoulders. Sips went with them, his smile strained. Nano locked the door behind them.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, one by one, everyone turned to look at Strife.

"It's all right," Zoey said softly.

"Bastards," Nano spat, slapping the counter hatch back down. Strife jolted at the noise.

He couldn't do this here. Not with everyone looking at him, not in the middle of the day, not here, not _now._ He'd been doing so well, he'd had such a good morning, nothing was _wrong,_ there was no reason for this to be happening. . . .

Fiona sidled over to him, trying to look small and failing.

"Hey," she said, and touched his arm.

All his springs snapped at once, and he was shredded in the explosion.

* * *

 

_"Isn't that better?" Rythian asked, running his fingertips up and down Strife's arm. "Hardly even bleeding anymore, is it. I hate to see it go to waste like that. But now you know not to bite me, so at least we have that."_

_Strife shuddered. He was only just regaining feeling in his fingers. He was lying across Rythian's lap. The taste of healing potion was sharp on his tongue. Rythian's touch made his skin crawl._

_"Nothing to say?" Rythian inquired. "That's a pleasant change. I think I might reward you, for being so still and quiet. Would you like that, my pet?"_

_He desperately wanted to say_ _ no, _ _to spit in Rythian's face and strangle him with that heavy length of chain now welded to his own neck. He clenched his jaw on the word, though, because there was another part of him, just as desperate, that would have given everything it had just to not hurt anymore. The potion had stopped him bleeding, but it hadn't replaced the tissue Rythian had torn from his shoulder, hadn't quelled the terror and disgust in his stomach—_

_—He'd_ _ eaten _ _it, the monster had taken a bite out of him and_ _ eaten _ _it—_

_His breath was hitching, refusing to come smoothly anymore. Rythian touched a blood-smeared knuckle to his cheek, leaned down and kissed him. Strife's whole body went warm, overwhelmed, and damn it, he_ _ hated _ _being touched, hated what it did to him, hated the hypersensitivity of his skin and the way even the slightest brush of contact could make his whole body sing, whether he wanted it to or not._

_Rythian's hand trailed over his chest, down his stomach, rested on his hip. Strife writhed, weakly, and tried to catch Rythian's wrist. The claws dug in. Strife froze._

_Rythian sat up slowly, letting his lips linger against Strife's. His eyes were lurid in the darkness, and Strife found it impossible to look away._

_"Is that a yes, my pet?" he inquired softly. "After all this time, a yes?"_

_Strife gulped. His blood had turned to water, his bones all to lead. His skin twitched under Rythian's hand._

_"No," he whispered, his voice rough and weak._

_Rythian clicked his teeth and sighed, rolling his eyes. The claws dug in deeper, puncturing the skin. Strife cried out, and Rythian grabbed a handful of his hair, yanked him upright._

_"When you want it to stop," Rythian said, an amused lilt to his voice, "be sure you let me know. When the pain is over, there will be bliss. So let me know when you're ready, my pet, and you will never hurt again."_

_"No," Strife said again._

_Rythian threw him to the floor and drew out the terrible dagger. . . ._

* * *

 

Strife surfaced again curled up in Parvis's lap, folded in his arms and shivering.

"Hey," Parvis said.

"Where?" Strife croaked. He didn't dare to move. He hurt all over, and his head was spinning.

"My place," Parvis answered. "Er . . . Zoey's here, too, so um. . . ."

Strife went stiff. Parvis patted him on the back.

"We couldn't tell if you were unconscious, or what," he went on. "Your eyes were open, I mean, but you weren't, um, doing anything."

"I brought you here," Zoey said. "I don't know if you remember, but you were, sort of, asking for him. Parvis, I mean."

Faintly, Strife could hear his own voice, whimpering in his ears, begging to be taken to the one place he felt safe, making a mockery of himself in front of everyone he knew. His skin went hot, and he pushed himself out of Parvis's lap, flushed and sick.

Parvis scooted away from him and laced his fingers together. He kept his eyes lowered. Zoey, on the other hand, was looking at him, her face lined with concern.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

The shaking had started again the moment Parvis had no longer been touching him. He tried to get up out of the bed, but his knees buckled underneath him. Zoey half-rose from her chair, reaching out a hand to catch him. Strife shrank from her, and she sat back down.

"Sorry," she said. "I s'pose that's sort of a silly question. D'you need anything?"

"You to leave," Strife blurted, before he could even think about what he was saying.

Parvis put his face in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. Zoey looked between the two of them.

"Um," she said, "I really don't feel comfortable leaving you two alone together. Sorry, just . . . I dunno. Sorry."

"Please take him away," Parvis mumbled. "Please, for the love of God, take him home."

Strife stared. The trembling redoubled, and his hands clenched on the sheets. He couldn't be alone, not now, not so soon after, and where else could he go? Especially now that the others had seen him fall apart, he would be a _joke,_ or at least a nuisance—and what if he had another attack and fell back into that wretched pattern of servitude _in front of someone else?_ The thought of kneeling at Nano's feet, whimpering and desperate, was so repugnant that it nearly made him throw up.

No, only Parvis would do; Parvis, from whom he had nothing left to hide, who was just as broken and miserable and _would not try to fix him._

His hand, all by itself, had reached out and started plucking at Parvis's sleeve. Tears were gathering in his eyes.

_Don't leave me,_ he wanted to say. _Don't leave me alone again._

"No," he said, miserably.

"Oh, God," Parvis whispered. "Oh, God, Strife, don't do this."

"No," he repeated. Any minute now, he'd start hearing that voice again, any minute now he'd be dragged back into the broken-glass fields of his memory, and how could he hope for a moment's peace if he wasn't allowed to ride through to the end? How would it ever be _over?_

His other hand had joined the first, plucking at Parvis's sleeve. Parvis's fingernails were digging into his scalp, his whole body tense.

"Um," said Zoey. "Um, Parvis?"

Parvis swallowed.

"I think . . . you'd better go," he mumbled. "He'll . . . be all right in an hour or so."

"Okay, sure, but will _you?"_

Parvis looked up sharply. There were tears in his eyes.

"Parv," Strife said. Having Zoey in the room was skewing his internal reality, a weight on the rubber sheet of his mind. The soft fog was rising all around him, echoing with Rythian's voice, and he ached for contact—but there was Zoey, _watching_ him, and he was clinging to his dignity with his fingernails and slipping every second.

"I'll be fine," Parvis said. "You really should go."

"I'll just . . . come back later. To check in," she said.

Strife forced himself to hold still, to stay on his side of the bed, to relegate himself to plucking at Parvis's sleeve and trembling violently. She would be gone soon, only a few seconds more, soon he wouldn't have to try anymore—

"Okay. Thank you." Parvis's voice was soft, resigned.

Zoey got up and left. The door clicked closed behind her.

Strife crawled into Parvis's lap and kissed him desperately. The fog billowed up, and his thoughts went quiet, and for a few glorious minutes, nothing hurt.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was midmorning, and Rythian was not home. He'd left the night before, late in the evening, mumbling something about the Crooked Caber and telling her not to wait up for him. She hadn't, and had assumed he would come home while she slept, but noon was swiftly approaching and his bed had not been slept in.

Zoey was on the verge of going out to look for him when the tent flap was shoved aside and he ducked in, eyes lowered, head down. His hair was mussed, his clothes wrinkled. The bags under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night, and there were bruises poking out from underneath his scarf.

"Where've you _been?"_ she cried, shooting to her feet.

Rythian winced and held up a finger. He tottered to his desk and lowered himself into the chair, putting his face in his hands.

"Please tell me there's coffee," he mumbled.

"No," she said, "there isn't, because I thought you'd be home and you weren't home and I didn't know where you'd gone or if you were coming back and _no,_ Rythian, I have _not_ made coffee because I thought you were dead!"

He put his face on the desk. "Please stop yelling."

With his head bowed, the bruises on his neck became more visible. They were bunched along the sides, running from ear to collarbone, blotchy purple ovals mottled with red.

"And what's happened to your neck?" she demanded.

Rythian went crimson.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, tugging on the ends of his scarf to tighten it around his neck.

Zoey pulled up short.

"Oh," she said. "I mean—okay, fair enough, but you could've said you wouldn't be home. I was worried sick about you."

"Didn't know when I left."

"Sort of a . . . spur of the moment, sort of thing?"

"I really don't want to talk about it."

"It wasn't Lalna again, was it?" she asked, fighting down a smile.

_"No_ it wasn't—Lalna again," he snapped, lifting his head enough to glare at her.

"Aha!" she crowed. "So there _was_ a first time!"

_"Zoey—"_ he began at a snarl, then stopped himself. He took a deep breath and sighed it out again, biting his lip. "I _really_ don't want to talk about it. At all. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. "Um, I mean, d'you want me to leave you alone? 'Cause, I can do that, if you want, I don't mind."

He shook his head and sat up. "No, it's fine. I just . . . need a few minutes to get back on track. And maybe coffee."

"There's plenty still in the bag," she said.

Rythian sighed, got up, and started a pot of coffee.

"So what're we doing today, oh master of the thaumy arts?" she asked, while the water percolated.

He stiffened. "Don't . . . call me that. But since you have your thaumom . . . mometer, I thought we could go out and scan things so you can start familiarizing yourself with the aspects."

"Ooh! Road trip!"

"Please don't yell."

"Sorry," she said, then repeated in a mousey tone: "Ooh! Road trip!"

Rythian put his face in his hand. His shoulders shook.

"Yes," he managed, "a road trip."

_"Yesss!"_ she said, punching the air. "Ooh, how long d'you think we'll be gone? 'Cause I'll have to tell Fiona if I'm going to be gone more than a day or so."

"Should be back by sunset," Rythian said flatly. His eyes were fixed on the coffee pot.

The excitement evaporated like alcohol on hot pavement.

"Have you got to do that _every time?"_ she asked, folding her arms.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Yes, you do," she countered. "Every single time I bring up Fiona, you go all . . . mopey."

He shrugged. "Sorry."

"You are absolutely _unbearable_ sometimes," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Then why don't you leave?" he snapped, rounding on her. His eyes were alight with purple fire, his face set with anger. She took a half step back, and her arms unfolded themselves into a cringing posture. All the fight went out of Rythian upon the instant, supplanted by guilt.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" he began, stretching out a hand.

"Maybe I will!" she cried, balling her fists. "Maybe I _will_ leave, too! Fiona's asked me to move in with her, did you know that? And maybe I will!"

Rythian was staring at her as though she'd just shot him. His hand slid down to his side, his shoulders slumped, the light of his eyes went dark.

"Oh," he said, in a very small voice. Mechanically, he turned back to the coffee pot. "Well. Congratulations are . . . in order. Apparently. So. Congratulations."

"Good! Thanks! I'm going to go pack for the road trip! So come get me when you're not too hungover to function!"

He sighed and hung his head. "Zoey—" he began, but she left before he could finish.

* * *

 

By the time Rythian knocked on her tent post, Zoey had finally managed to stop crying.

"Come in!" she said, and hurriedly rubbed her face with her hands to scrub off the last of the tears.

The flap pushed open, and Fiona ducked inside. Zoey stared, her mouth hanging open.

"Um," said Fiona, "hiya, Zoey."

She got to her feet and hurried over, taking Fiona's hands in hers.

"Hi," she said, bewildered. "What're you doing here?"

Fiona shrugged. "Heard you were having a bit of a rough day. Also heard you were going on a road trip, and I'd hate to miss that."

"You— _Rythian?"_

"I was just as surprised as you, believe me," Fiona said, smiling wryly.

"Is he outside? Did he come with you?"

"Last I saw. Why?"

"I'll be right back," Zoey said, and pecked her on the cheek, and hurried outside. Rythian was nowhere to be seen, but she took a guess and made a beeline for his magic tent (recently reconstructed). He was inside, and only glanced up when she came inside.

"Something wrong?" he asked. He was chipping away at a long, flat rectangle of glass.

"I don't know, is there?" she responded. "I thought we were going on a, like, magic road trip thing."

"You don't really need me there," he said. "You know how to scan with the thaumometer, right? Just do that on everything you see, and I really do mean everything. It's not difficult, I'm sure you'll have no trouble."

"Look, Rythian, about earlier—I'm sorry."

He lifted his head, frowning. _"You're_ sorry? For what?"

"I dunno, I was sort of . . . shouty and horrible."

"If anyone should be sorry, it's me. And I am. And I thought you might want a little more time away from me, and . . . honestly, I'm not sure I'm fit for company at the moment, but I didn't want you to have to go alone, so. . . ." He shrugged. "I asked Fiona if she'd mind going with you, and she didn't, so here she is, and I'd head out soon, if I were you, so you don't get stuck out there in the dark."

She peered at him. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Zoey, thank you." He blew the powder off of the glass rectangle and turned it over.

"What're you working on?" she asked, taking a step closer.

"Just a pet project," he said. "You probably shouldn't keep Fiona waiting."

"Well, all right, if you're sure you'll be all right," she allowed. "Just don't blow anything else up while I'm gone, okay?"

The corner of his mouth turned up. "I promise I won't blow anything else up."

"Okay. Um . . . thanks, Rythian," she said.

"Anytime," he answered. _"Go,_ Zoey."

"Okay!" said Zoey, and went.

* * *

 

Zoey peered at the purple glass, and through it, Fiona.

"What's it say?" Fiona asked, fidgeting.

"Ummm," said Zoey, tipping her head to the side. "Looks like you contain elements of _major cutie."_

Fiona laughed and chucked her in the arm. "Be serious!"

"No, that's what it says! Here, look." She handed the thaumometer to Fiona. Fiona pointed it at Zoey and frowned.

"Huh," she said, "it says you contain elements of _unknown aspect._ Is that the same as _major cutie?"_

"You're silly," Zoey said, snatching the device back from her. "It's only saying that because you don't have the same kind of magical knowledge that I do."

"S'pose not. You could teach me, though."

Zoey rolled her eyes and tried to scan a locust. It was a fruitless enterprise, since the insect wouldn't hold still long enough.

"I mean, I would," she said. "If I actually understood any of it. I mean, _technically,_ yeah, I can do all this stuff and make things, but like, I can't really do it. I mean, I _could,_ I just don't really care enough. It's all super complicated and I can do it all much easier with science."

"Of course," said Fiona. She clapped her hands around the locust and lifted a thumb, showcasing the buzzing wings inside.

"That's like, super impressive," Zoey said, trying to get the thaumometer to focus on the locust instead of Fiona's hands.

"Yeah?" said Fiona. "Thanks. It took loads of practice. I could teach you, if you want."

Zoey pouted. "I'd end up killing one, and then I'd feel super bad about it," she pointed out.

"I don't think you'd kill one," Fiona said, "but if you don't want to, that's okay. I can catch all your bugs for you."

"I've got some in my stomach," Zoey said. "Butterflies, or something. It's weird, they only turn up when you're about."

"Oh, I can catch those," Fiona assured her. She released the locust in her hands when the thaumometer dinged. "Here, let me give it a shot."

"Wait—" Zoey squeaked, but Fiona's hands shot out and tickled at her stomach, and she shrieked and batted them away, jumping half a foot in the air.

Fiona laughed. "Sorry! I'm sorry. Should I have warned you first?"

"Yes," Zoey said, pouting. "Besides, we're outside and it's sort of—y'know. . . ."

_"Oh,_ I see. I mean, there's no one about," she said slyly, eyeing Zoey.

Zoey blushed. "Yeah, but it's like, the principle of the thing, right? There _could_ be somebody, and it'd be all weird and stuff, and besides, I'm supposed to be learning magic or whatever."

"Right, yeah, all that boring, useless magic."

"Not _useless,_ I just know I can do better with science, is all."

"But it _is_ boring."

"Super boring, yeah."

Fiona bit her lip, then asked, "So why're you still doing it?"

Zoey shrugged, turning away to scan a clump of something dry and twiggy.

"Dunno. I mean, it could be useful at some point, y'know, if the science stops working or something. I could make, like, an infinite power source for my arm, that'd be cool."

"You couldn't do that with science?"

"Yeah, I guess, but it'd probably be super radioactive."

"Okay, that's fair. Still, I'm just curious why you're still working on it if it's not interesting or useful."

Zoey hesitated, then answered softly, "Because I don't really want to stop being Rythian's apprentice."

"Oh," said Fiona.

_"Oh_ what?" Zoey asked, looking over her shoulder.

Fiona shrugged. "Just _oh,_ Zoey. I can understand it, even if I don't, exactly, agree with it. It's your business, after all, and if it makes you happy, then I'm glad you're doing it."

Zoey turned her eyes back to the thaumometer.

"Yeah," she said. "'Cause of course it makes me happy. Why else would I be doing it?"

Fiona put a hand on her shoulder. "Zo? You all right?"

She shook herself. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. There's some green stuff across the river, d'you think we should go scan that?"

Fiona looked at her a little longer than was necessary.

"Sure," she said. "Lead on, mighty mage."

Zoey grinned and kissed her quickly. Hand in hand, they headed towards the river, out of the desert.

* * *

 

Two days later, Rythian came knocking at her tent at sunset.

"Yeah?" she said, setting down the circuitry she was working on. He ducked inside and immediately began fiddling with his fingers.

"Um," he said, looking anywhere but at her. "You remember how you told me not to play with the fabric of the universe?"

Her stomach dropped. "Yeah?"

"Um," said Rythian. "I kind of did it anyway." He held up his hands, placating. "Nothing's gone wrong! If anything was going to break, or . . . mess up, or anything, it would've done it by now, so it's fine, it's all fine. Everything's okay."

"All right, so why're you here then?"

He made a face. "Well, I was just about to test the first pieces, just to see if they work, and . . . I don't really want to do it alone? Just in case something goes wrong—nothing's going to go wrong! I'm sure nothing's going to go wrong. But just in case it does, I didn't want there to be . . . nobody around to help. You don't have to do anything! Just . . . please come with me."

Zoey sighed. She pulled the waterproof cloth over her circuitry and stood up, wiping her hands on her trousers.

"Okay," she said.

Rythian grinned a thousand-watt grin and jigged in place.

"Thank you!" he chirped, and darted out of the tent. He poked his head back in and added, "It's all in the big magic tent, you know, the one that blew up? Come on!"

He vanished again, and Zoey hurried after him, fighting down the dread coiling around her stomach. Rythian was already in the magic tent when she arrived. He was on his hands and knees, examining a carved stone block, counting the inlaid gold runes set into its sides.

All the hairs on the back of Zoey's neck stood up. She hesitated on the threshold, her stomach churning.

"What's . . . _that?"_ she managed, gesturing weakly to the block. There was a kind of a bowl carved into the top of it. It looked uncomfortably empty, like a deflated balloon.

"This is the altar," Rythian said, getting up and dusting his hands off. "I was just making sure I had everything right. It looks fine, and I've checked it eighteen times now, so I think it'll be okay." He paused fidgeting, then said, "And please don't . . . freak out, okay?"

She frowned, wrapping her arms around herself. "Why would I freak out?" she demanded.

Rythian picked up a glass dagger from the table against the wall. It looked sharp enough to cut water. Zoey's stomach lurched.

"It's okay!" he assured her. "It's for me, just me, you don't have to do anything. Um. It shouldn't even hurt, really. It's not going to hurt. Probably. I think." He shook himself. "But it'll be fine, either way."

"Rythian, I really don't think you should be doing this," she said.

His eyebrows drew together. "Why?" he asked.

"It's just—it seems really bad! Like, _really_ bad. I've got a bad feeling about it, okay?"

He tipped his head to the side and sighed.

"Zoey. I _promise,_ it'll be okay. I know what I'm doing. And if anything goes wrong—which it's not going to—I'm sure you'll be able to handle it. And if it's bad, I'll put the whole thing away and never look at it again. I promise. All right?"

She fidgeted, but then said, "All right."

He grinned again. "Good!" He turned towards the altar, set the tip of the knife against his fingertip, and stopped.

"Um," he said. "There is a . . . _very_ small chance that this will, actually, kill me instantly by sucking all of the blood out of my body. A _tiny_ chance, it's not going to happen, but I just thought you should know, _just_ in case it did—which it won't—but if it did, I think it would be better to not . . . be surprised by that. Okay? Great, okay, just a little prick on the finger, it won't even hurt—probably. . . ."

And before she could stop him, he'd pricked his finger on the tip of the dagger.

He dropped instantly, like a marionette with its strings all cut at once. The dagger tumbled from his hand. The altar gurgled like a clogged drain and sent up a puff of black smoke. Zoey ran to Rythian's side and dropped to her knees.

_"Don't touch me,"_ he gasped. He was shaking like a leaf in a storm, his skin flushed, his eyes wide and unfocused. He was panting, his breath shivering along with the rest of him.

"Oh my gosh," she said, clutching her hands to her chest, unsure of where else to put them. "Oh my gosh, are you okay? Rythian? Are you okay?"

He laughed, a low and husky sound, and pressed his forehead to the sandy floor.

"I'm—good," he said, and laughed again. "That's the word I'd pick. Hah. _Good."_

"Um," said Zoey, looking around for _something_ she could do, anything to quell her unease. "Um, d'you—I mean, d'you need anything?"

"No," Rythian said, sitting up and leaning his back against the altar. "No, I—well, actually, yes, if we have any water, that would be . . . nice."

"Water, okay, gotcha," she said, and leapt to her feet. She froze when she saw the top of the altar.

Rythian cracked open an eye. "What?" he said.

"There's, um," she said hoarsely, "there's, um. . . ."

He draped a forearm along the edge of the altar and pulled himself up. He stared, then sank back down, his eyes gone wide.

"Oh," he said faintly. "Well, that . . . that explains some things."

"Is that—I mean, that's a lot of—is that all _yours?"_ she stammered out.

Rythian was looking down at his hand, at the little bead of blood on the tip of his finger.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I think so."

"Oh my gosh," she said again. "You can't ever do this again. Rythian, _promise_ me you won't ever do this again."

He frowned. "Why?"

"Because there's—your—because it's _awful_ and scary and it could've killed you!"

"But it didn't," he said. "It didn't even hurt. I mean, not really. A little, but . . . hah, who cares?"

"No. This is not okay. _Promise_ me, Rythian. You're acting really creepy and this is _so bad,_ this is like _super_ dangerous, please just promise me you'll put it away and never look at it again."

He stuck his finger in his mouth and nodded absently.

"Is that you promising?"

The finger came out just long enough for him to say, "Yes, Zoey."

"Okay," she said, sagging. "Okay, well, good. I'm going to go get you some water, and . . . something to eat, because you look really pale and that's a lot of—yeah, so, just, don't go anywhere."

Another nod. His eyes were still unfocused, looking at something impossibly far away.

"Okay," she repeated, and ducked out.

She hurried back to the main tent, gathering up a canteen of water, a chilled bowl of mushroom stew, and, though it made her stomach turn, some of Rythian's salted beef that he kept under his bed.

Back in the magic tent, Rythian was examining the knife with vague curiosity.

"Put that thing down," Zoey ordered.

"I just don't understand why it happened," he muttered, turning the blade this way and that. "It was just supposed to _not hurt,_ how do you overdo that?"

_"Rythian."_

He looked up, froze for a second, then casually tossed the knife away.

"Idle curiosity," he said. "Is there water? Because right now I think I'll pass out if I try to stand up."

Fuming, Zoey went over and sat down across from him. She handed him the canteen, which he drained all in one go.

"Rythian," she began, then sighed, looking away. "Why?"

"What?" he said, halfway through plucking the salted beef out of her hand. "Why what?"

"Why've you done this?"

He shrugged. "To see if I could? I don't see why it's important."

"Because it's _horrible,"_ she said. "It's horrible and scary—"

"To be fair, I didn't know exactly what would happen," he pointed out.

"Even before you tried anything! Even just when you were thinking about it, it was still horrible and scary! Doesn't this worry you, even just a little bit?"

"Not . . . at the moment," he admitted. "I'm sure it will when I . . . when it's worn off."

She narrowed her eyes and looked him up and down. "When _what's_ worn off?"

He fidgeted and folded his hands in his lap. "Nothing, don't worry about it. You're right, it's dangerous, and I'll . . . leave it alone."

"Will you?" she asked. "Or is this going to be just like when you said you wouldn't go out to the Caber and get drunk anymore?"

"I never said that," he objected.

"Yes, you did."

"I said I wouldn't do it without telling you, that's different."

She took a moment to construct her question just right, then asked, "Rythian, have you . . . have you got a girlfriend?"

He made a face. "No. Why would you even ask?"

"A boyfriend?" she hazarded.

"No. Zoey—"

"Some-other-kind-of-friend?" she suggested, hopeful.

_"No._ Why are you asking?"

"Because I'm really hoping that you're not just going out and getting super drunk and—and staying over with random people," she said, blushing so hotly it was a wonder she didn't combust.

Rythian stared at her.

"And if I am?" he asked.

"Then that's really bad! That's really bad and you shouldn't do it because it's bad for you!"

"Okay," he said.

She gawped at him. "What—really? You're not . . . going to argue or get all mad or anything?"

"I don't think so," he said. "I don't really care if you think it's bad and I shouldn't do it, because I'm going to keep doing it anyway."

"You're _what?"_

"Sorry, was I mumbling?" There was a frank sincerity in his voice that threw her off balance. "I'm sorry you don't like it, Zoey, but since it's my life, I think I'm going to do whatever I want."

Zoey glared at him, and then at the altar, and then at him.

"The magic's done something weird to your head," she accused. "It's making you act all weird."

"Is it?" he said innocently. "I don't know, I kind of like it."

She shoved the mushroom stew into his hands, shot to her feet, and stalked over to where the dagger hand landed in the sand. She glared over her shoulder at Rythian, making sure he was watching, and brought her heel down sharply on the glass blade. It snapped with a sad little _chink_ noise.

If she hadn't been watching him, she never would have seen the expression that flicked across his face, a millisecond long; would not have seen his arm twitch as though trying to reach out and being stopped.

He'd looked viciously, animally _hungry._

Zoey took a step back. Rythian leaned against the altar like a chocolate bunny melting against a furnace.

"I just. . . ." she began, and stopped. He looked so small, so _tired_ all of a sudden. "Um. I'm really serious about the magic stuff."

"I can see that," Rythian sighed.

"Um. Sorry."

"It's fine. I understand."

"You . . . you do? I mean, um, good, I'm glad." She did not add, _Could you explain it to_ _me,_ _then?_

"I'm very tired, Zoey. I think I'm going to sleep in here tonight. The other tent is a little too far away. Thank you for coming. I'm glad you were here."

"Yeah," she said, "no problem. Um. Are you _sure_ you're going to be all right?"

"I'm sure, Zoey. I promise, I'll be fine." He yawned, and dragged himself to his feet.

"I'll see you in the morning, I guess," she said.

"Mm. Good night, Zoey."

"And we can make the goggly things?"

"If you want. Good night, Zoey."

She fidgeted for a moment, then said, "Good night, Rythian," and ducked back out of the tent.

That night, she lay awake for hours, her stomach unsettled, her blood thick and chilly in her veins.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Parvis had made him breakfast again, and Strife was tired enough and hungry enough that he actually sat down at the table and started eating it.

For a long time, there was silence.

"So . . . new people," Parvis said at last.

Strife dug his thumbnail into an orange and started peeling it.

"Zoey said they were a bit, er, abrasive."

Juice squirted out of the orange onto Strife's cheek. He wiped it off, keeping his gaze firmly on the fruit.

"Um. She said no one's really . . . told them about me." His voice was almost hopeful. "I guess they're not interested?"

"No one's interested," Strife snapped.

"Oh. R-right, yeah. I just thought—I dunno, never mind."

"What, looking for _fresh starts?"_ he asked.

"Kind of," Parvis admitted.

"You can have them," Strife said. "They deserve you."

"Is this helpful for you?" Parvis demanded, his voice sharp enough to draw Strife's gaze up. To his surprise, there were tears in his eyes.

"What?" he said.

"Does it _help,_ to treat me like shit?" he said.

Strife's jaw clenched. "Yes," he answered. "Yes, it does."

Parvis swallowed and lowered his eyes. "Well then," he said. "Don't s'pose I can tell you to stop."

"You could," Strife said. "If you were a selfish jerk."

 _"Sound just like him,"_ Parvis hissed under his breath.

"What did you just say?" Strife said, getting to his feet, palms pressed to the table.

Parvis glared. "I said you sound just like him."

"Just like _who,_ exactly?"

"You _know_ who."

His hand clenched on his fork.

"I do _not_ sound like him," he growled. "How _dare_ you."

"How would you know?" Parvis said. "I thought you'd decided to forget all of that."

"Shut up."

"Not about this. I'm not going to let you use me _and_ abuse me."

 _"Use?"_ he sputtered. _"Use_ you? Sorry, what _universe_ are you living in?"

"This one," Parvis snarled, shooting to his feet. Strife knocked his chair over trying to take a step back. The fork felt thin and puny in his hand. Parvis shut his eyes, and breathed deeply, and sat back down.

"I never turn you away," he said quietly, "because I owe you. And I know I can't ever make up for what I did, but I'm _trying,_ and as long as you keep asking, I have to keep doing it. D'you understand that? _Can_ you understand that?"

"No!" Strife snapped. "No, I can't, and don't even _try_ to tell me you don't enjoy it, because you do, and I _know_ you do, and you _always_ have!"

Parvis clenched his jaw and stared at his plate. Strife threw down his fork and stormed to the door.

"It's because you still kiss like him," Parvis said, his voice low and dark and brittle.

Strife froze, cold to the core, his blood curdled and his bones rusted.

 _"What?"_ he croaked.

"It's because," Parvis repeated, slowly, "you still kiss like him."

"I do _not,"_ Strife snapped, rounding on him. "I do _not,_ that's a lie."

Parvis shrugged, still looking at his plate. "If it helps you sleep at night."

"It's a _lie,"_ he said, shaking a finger at Parvis.

"D'you really think I'd lie about that?" Parvis murmured "D'you really think I _want_ to want that?"

"You're fucking _sick,"_ Strife spat.

"No more than you."

Strife slammed the door on his way out.

* * *

 

 _"Nothing_ like him," Strife muttered, pacing the floor of his bedroom. "Where does he get off? Sick _freak._ I'm _nothing_ like him."

He turned to glare at the stuffed alligator that lived on top of his dresser. It had a permanently enthused expression. He jabbed a finger at it.

 _"You_ can shut up," he snapped. "It's not _like_ that and you know it."

The alligator said nothing. Strife went back to pacing.

"It's _not_ like that. I'm not _stupid._ I'm not a complete idiot. Made sense at the time. _Still_ makes sense, hey?"

His voice twisted into a mockery of Rythian's accent, his shoulders squared and his head lifted.

 _"If you hadn't quit, you'd be putting my teeth through the back of my skull with that stupid science-stick of yours,"_ he mocked, then shook himself and scoffed.

"So it's not _like_ that," he concluded, halting in the middle of the floor and looking to the alligator again. "It's not like that, because _he_ was crazy, and _I'm_ not. And I'm not letting it happen again."

The alligator grinned a wide, frozen grin.

"So what if he hasn't _yet?"_ Strife demanded, snatching the stuffed animal down from its perch. "He will, you mark my words, he _will._ And when he does, he's not getting into _my_ head."

He carried the alligator to his study and dropped it on the workbench, belly-up. There was a clumsy seam down the middle of the stuffed animal, and Strife sliced it open with the knife he'd been using to strip wires. White cottony innards were cast across the table like tiny, dry clouds.

Strife's hands shook as he pulled out the book, hidden under layers of stuffing. It was plain, leather-bound, thick and worn. He stared at it for a full minute before he peeled open the front cover.

 _Initial experiments have been promising,_ it read. _Ritualistic aspects as effective as I suspected. Working combination of runes for dagger and altar listed below._

_Dagger should be 4 inches, no more; glass blade; handle pref. bone but iron works too, gold wrapping for inc. conductivity. TAKE CARE, as any wound will draw abt. 1 pint blood (best estimate). Will also cause some unrelated—but not entirely unpleasant—physiological side-effects, such as: overwhelming sense of well-being; numbness and tingling; somewhat feverish warmth. . . ._

He snapped the book closed. It had seemed so _enticing,_ the first time around, so curious and strange and, above all, _scientific._ The book went on and on, describing every rune, every ritual, every effect and side-effect, so much so that it had hardly seemed like magic at all.

And he remembered those _side-effects,_ oh yes, those more than anything. He'd been trying not to think about it, because it couldn't do any good and he was _never_ going back, but he couldn't pretend he hadn't _liked_ it. That was the worst part of it all: that he could understand exactly how a person could talk himself into murdering half a dozen people, if it meant one more taste of that glorious high.

"But _I_ wouldn't," he muttered, staring unseeing at the book.

A few moments later, he peeled open the cover again, this time looking at the inside of it, rather than the first page.

There was the name, signed with a flourish; and beneath it, coordinates, unchanged since the last time he'd looked. In a way, that was reassuring. They'd changed once—and only once—before.

"I could burn you," he said, weighing the book in his hand. "I _should_ burn you. So . . . so Parvis doesn't get ahold of you, or—whatever."

The page remained unchanged. Strife pursed his lips.

_Rythian._

It looked so small, so innocuous, written down like that, just some lines on paper, ink scribbled onto pulped wood. The book itself, the culmination of a vast and terrible power, just some leather and some paper and thousands of meaningless little lines—all that was left of a once-living thing, a poor man's tombstone, left to weather and decay.

"Not so big now, are you?" Strife hissed at the book, at the name, at the memory of the man.

The book, the name, the memory, all did not reply.

Strife snapped the book closed and tossed it into the corner to rot.

* * *

 

"So," Nano said, planting a fist against her hip, "d'you think that'll be enough, or should I bother Kirin for more? Please tell me it's enough, because if he makes that puppydog face at me one more time, I'm honestly going to deck him."

"It uh, it looks like plenty," Strife said, folding his arms and shrugging. "I won't really know until I actually get started, though."

"Right," she said, fidgeting. "Of course. But you've got your little machine thing that does the thing, right?"

"The architect? Not with me, no. It doesn't exactly fit in your pocket."

Her eyes got a little wider with each word.

"Of course!" she said, laughing nervously. "I mean, I knew that. Ahah. I know all _about_ the machines, me."

"Riiiiight," said Strife, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"You wouldn't . . . happen to need any help getting it over here, would you?" Nano asked.

"No, not—" he began, and stopped. She was looking up at him with those big, hopeful eyes, shifting her weight from foot to foot, twining her fingers together. He cleared his throat and looked away.

"I—I mean, yeah, I guess I could . . . use an extra pair of hands," he said.

 _"Yesss,"_ Nano hissed, punching the air. "I get so sick of the damn noodles. I _miss_ machines."

"It's not like you're going to be doing anything but picking it up and carrying it," Strife pointed out.

"Yeah, but I get to go in your machine-basement. I've always wanted to have a go at your basement."

They stood in silence for a moment.

"Um," Strife began.

"Oh, get your mind out of the gutter," Nano scolded.

 _"My_ mind? Excuse me, _my_ mind? Says the woman who thought her building would look like a-a-a giant . . . _chode."_

She burst out laughing. "Well, it _would._ I don't know, I'm sort of fond of the idea, maybe we should make it as chode-ish as possible."

"Hey, you want to make a dick-building, you can build it _yourself."_

"You're no fun at all," she accused.

 _"I,"_ he said, pressing his fingers to his chest, "have a _reputation,_ thank you very much."

"Yeah?" she countered. "So have I, and you'd be _amazed_ how far it's gotten me."

"I don't really want to know how far it's gotten you, honestly. That's not something I need to know about you."

"Aw, have I embarrassed you?"

"No," he said, in flagrant defiance of the heat coloring his cheeks.

"Have I gone a bit far? Was I not supposed to mention. . . ." She paused, leaned in for effect, and whispered, _"Sex?"_

He punched her lightly in the arm, turning away.

"Stop," he whined. "Let's just—let's just go get the machine, hey?"

"Oh, all right," Nano said, a grin in her voice. "If we must."

 _"Thank_ you," he sighed, starting off for home.

"I mean," she went on, musing. "It's only fair you take me back to your place, after I've got all this wood for you."

 _"Nano!"_ he cried, scandalized.

She cackled.

* * *

 

"Wow," said Nano, stopping on the landing halfway down the stairs. "It's a bit . . . larger than I thought."

"Nano, please," he said, grinning. "I thought we were done with the innuendoes."

"You did _that_ one yourself," she retorted. _"I_ was talking about the machine. How on earth were you planning to get that to the noodle bar all by yourself?"

He shrugged and patted the top of the machine. "It has wheels."

"You have stairs."

Strife paused. He looked at the twelve stairs that led down to the basement room, and at the machine, and back at the stairs.

"Oh," he said.

Nano sighed and rolled her eyes. She skipped down the stairs to his side and looked critically at the machine.

"How heavy is it, anyway?" she asked.

"Not sure," he said, scratching his chin. "Worse comes to worst, I can rig up a ramp or something."

"Why not just do that now?"

"Because we haven't tried picking it up!"

"Oh, this is _man_ thing, isn't it," Nano said sagely. "It's not legitimate until there's been grunting."

"What? No, that's not—why would you even—this has nothing to do with _grunting."_

"Doesn't it? My mistake."

 _"Grunting,"_ Strife muttered, shaking his head. "Okay, you get that side, I'll get this side, and we'll try picking it up."

"Do we _have_ to?" she asked.

"It's a lot quicker than trying to lay down a ramp on those stairs."

"Fine," she sighed, and crouched next to the machine, wedging her fingers under the edge of it. Strife mirrored her posture on the other side.

"Okay, ready? After three. One, two, three, _hup!"_

They heaved. There was grunting. Nano dropped her side and Strife was forced to follow suit.

 _"Ramp,"_ Nano called, leaning her elbows on the top of the machine.

"We had it," Strife complained.

She glared at him. "Maybe _you_ did, Mr. Big Strong Man, but _I_ nearly lost my fingers."

"Lost your—oh, _now_ you're just exaggerating."

"Am not. Look." She held out her hands to him.

Strife hesitated, then very gently cupped her knuckles in his palms. He peered down at her fingers, making a show of focusing in the hope that she wouldn't catch on to how his hands tingled at the touch.

"Ah, I see the problem," he said. "You have baby hands, is what it is."

She snatched her hands back and made a face at him.

"I've got very adult hands, thanks," she countered. "I can't even tell you how adult, because you'll start blushing again."

On cue, Strife started blushing again. He stuffed his own hands in his pockets.

"I'm just—I'm just gonna start working on that ramp, hey?" he said.

"Poor thing," Nano cooed.

"Baby hands," he retorted.

* * *

 

The sun had set only a few minutes ago, and the sky was still bruised with light. Strife was up on Nano's roof, shutting down the architect machine for the night. It had constructed a respectable frame over the course of the afternoon, and was warm from the work. He sat down on it and watched the clouds fade from pink to orange to a dull and smoggy brown. He leaned back on his hands and sighed, kicking his feet. Down below, light spilled out from the houses and pooled in the streets. People gravitated to the building beneath him, coming alone or in pairs. Strife noted that only two of the newcomers arrived in tow behind Sips; they must have told Smiffy to stay home. Strife smiled to himself.

The clink of plates and hiss of ovens drifted up through the thin roof. Strife got up off the machine and stretched. He was just turning to go back inside when something caught his eye.

Down in the darkness of the valley, the lights were on in Parvis's hut.

Strife hesitated. It wasn't exactly unusual for Parvis to be up and about after dark, but it _was_ unusual for him to have more than one or two candles lit. Light was blazing from his windows, throwing squares of light down onto the ground outside. Strife peered down, trying to see in the windows, but the best he could see was a silhouette, crossing back and forth in front of the window, its shadow flicking back and forth like a pendulum.

"Whatever," he muttered to himself, turning away. His stomach was unsettled, and he tried to tell himself that it was because he hadn't eaten since breakfast—and even then, he'd barely gotten any food down before Parvis had driven him off with whatever nonsense he'd been spouting.

There was a _bang_ like a gunshot, and Strife whirled so fast it made him dizzy. Parvis's doorway was pouring light out onto his lawn, flung wide open. A lanky figure stumbled out backwards and fell into the dirt, cowering, raising its hands to shield itself, glistening in the light.

Fear struck Strife like an icicle down the spine, sudden and violent and irresistible, and the whole world swelled and distorted with it.

And from the door strode Rythian, wreathed in fury like flame.

 _Not Rythian,_ he told himself. _Not Rythian, it's just Parvis with that stupid bandanna over his face—_

The figure on the ground scuttled back, and Strife could hear the desperate pleas tumbling from their mouth, _screamed_ in terror, rendered incoherent by the distance. Rythian advanced—

 _It's not him! It's just Parvis!_ His inner voice was yelling now, but panic was flooding up through him, frothing and opaque, frigid as an arctic sea—

—And Rythian drew a blade from a sheath at his hip, and the steel flashed and glinted in the light and the figure _screamed—_

 _It's not Rythian!_ Strife's inner voice screamed, but the panic swallowed it, and the words were nothing more than drowning bubbles and flat palms slammed against unyielding ceilings—

He blacked out.

* * *

 

_The blade flashed and glinted in the light as Rythian turned it to and fro, looking lovingly at the blood dribbling down from its point. Strife squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth, his breath coming short and desperate. Rythian's other hand burned against his cheek, gentle amidst the screaming pain in his abdomen._

_"Nothing to say, my pet?" Rythian inquired, smiling down at him. "No screams left for me? Or maybe I'm just not trying hard enough. Shall I try harder, my pet?"_

_Strife whimpered. Rythian kissed him. The warm tip of the knife touched his sternum. Weakly, he tried to struggle, but there was nothing left in him, no fuel to run the machinery of his body._

_"Let me know when you want it to stop," Rythian murmured, his lips still brushing Strife's. Strife shuddered, tried to turn his head away, but Rythian caught his hair and held him still._

_The knife bit down. Strife yelped. He didn't have the energy to scream anymore._

_Rythian drew a long, slow line all the way down to his hips. Tears crawled down Strife's cheeks, and he twitched and gasped and something inside him broke._

_"Please," he whimpered._

_Rythian stopped. The knife was still digging into Strife's flesh, still kissing the edge of the wound._

_"Please what, my pet?" Rythian inquired._

_"No . . . more," he breathed._

_He could hear the smile in Rythian's voice. "Would you like it to stop, my pet?"_

_The air had gone cold and thin and dry, and Strife could barely breathe it, and though he hadn't eaten in days—days?—he wanted to be sick._

_Slowly, he nodded._

_The knife drifted away, leaving him cold and stinging. Rythian's hand untangled from his hair and brushed his cheek._

_"Look at me," Rythian said quietly._

_Strife shivered. It didn't hurt that much, not anymore, and he was so_ _ tired _ _. . . ._

_Rythian struck him across the face, his claws tearing the skin. Strife cried out, and Rythian grabbed him by the throat._

_ "Look at me," _ _he hissed._

_Somehow, he managed to pry his eyes open. The world was a blur, but the two bloody sparks of Rythian's eyes stood out sharp and clear._

_Rythian smiled a sweet and tender smile._

_"Tell me you'll do anything to make it stop," he murmured. "I want to hear you say the words."_

_He shuddered again, and the sickness clawed at the back of his throat, and tears flowed from his eyes. His body ached and stung, his blood was curdled with weakness; his whole world was pain._

_"Anything," he whispered._

_And Rythian kissed him, and suddenly the world was_ _ wonderful _ _. . . ._

* * *

 

He came to on the roof, flat on his back and breathless. Overhead, the stars perforated the darkness, glittering and countless. He was vibrating with the forces of his internal tensions, wound up so tight that the key had snapped; but somehow he managed to get to his feet, somehow he managed to get down off the roof, somehow he managed to totter to his house.

His head throbbed with every heartbeat, his whole being rang like a church bell. He felt like he'd fallen thirty stories into freezing water, and his ears were still filled with the muffled roar of it.

The study floor cracked against his knees. The book was warm in his hands. He pressed his forehead to the leather, and his quaking settled, his internal fault line snapped to a new configuration.

He breathed for the first time in months.

"Never again," he said.

Strife sat up, and pulled the book into his lap, and peeled it open.

He started to read.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Rythian ducked inside, coated in tawny dust, and fastened the clasps on the tent flap before the wind could blow in. He pulled up his goggles and tugged down his mask, then fluffed the dust out of his hair.

"There's a sandstorm," he mentioned.

"Really?" said Zoey, grinning. "Oh my goodness, I never would have guessed."

Rythian shot her a critical look, somewhat undermined by the smile tugging at his lips.

"I'm sure it's not severe," he said, crossing to the kitchen counter and setting down his bags. "The air in this world, it's _supposed_ to be eighty percent sand, isn't it?"

"Yeah, definitely!" she said. "I mean, I don't know why you've got to ask. Unless you're not from this world."

"Me? Not from this world? What would make you think that?" He ran his hands back over his head and adopted a panicked expression. "Are my antennae showing?"

Zoey laughed. "It's the glowy eyes that give it away. Have you _really_ got antennas?"

He winked, and grinned at her. His teeth were pearly white against the dark dust coating his face. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"You _have,_ haven't you!"

"No, certainly not. They're definitely not hidden under all this hair."

She pouted, then got up and strode over to him. He tipped his head towards her and she stood on her toes to pick through his hair.

"You haven't got any antennas in here at all," she complained.

"Maybe you'll find them if you keep looking. You could enlist Fiona to help. Four hands are better than two, after all."

She settled back on her heels and dusted her hands off. "Maybe you could unload all your groceries."

"Ah, I _could,_ theoretically, but since you're . . . my apprentice. . . ." He trailed off, his eyes coming unfocused. He made a face and shook himself. "Sorry. Zoned out a little there."

"Um," said Zoey, trying to ignore the rotten filament of dread twining around her stomach. "Since I'm your apprentice?"

"Oh. Yes! Since you're my apprentice, it's among your duties to unpack the shopping."

"Since when?" she demanded, indignant.

"Since ever. I've been very lenient so far."

"Really? Are you _sure_ you're not just making up rules?"

"Completely. But since I'm very nice and super-lenient, I'll help with the unpacking."

He turned, swayed on his feet, and caught himself against the counter. Alarmed, Zoey stepped up next to him and put a hand on his arm.

"Rythian? Are you all right?"

"I. . . ." he said, and a shiver raced through him. "I don't . . . know."

Even as she watched, his face was growing waxen, pale. He shivered again, winced, shook his head.

"You don't look so good," she said, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. His skin was cool to the touch.

"I think I should . . . maybe sit down," he said faintly. His eyes had gone glassy. All the shivers had blended together into one low-lying tremor.

"Yeah, yeah, um, that's a good idea," Zoey said.

Rythian started off towards his desk and canted dangerously to one side. Zoey caught him by the arm and together they managed to stumble their way to the chair. By the time they got him seated, Rythian had gone white underneath the dust, and his breathing was quick and shallow. He was shaking so hard it was making the feet of the chair jitter against the floor.

He curled over on himself, wrapping his arms around his abdomen and resting his head on his knees.

"Oh, gosh," Zoey said, her heart fluttering wildly. "Oh, um, okay, just—just stay there, I'm going to get you some—some water? I guess? Um. What d'you think would help? What's wrong? Rythian? What's happening?"

"I d-don't . . . know," he said, his teeth chattering. "I'm—Z-Zoey I'm—"

"You're? Rythian?"

He shook his head, and a particularly violent tremor wracked his frame.

She whined to herself and knelt next to him, touching his face. "Rythian? Please talk to me, please tell me what to do, tell me what you need!"

His eyes were squeezed shut tight. His skin was clammy, sheened with sweat but cold as marble. He was digging his fingers into his sides so hard it had turned his knuckles white.

"I'm s-scared," he whispered.

Zoey went cold all over, her blood icy and her heart speared with splinters.

"No, oh, oh no, it's okay, it's gonna be okay," she dithered, panicking. "I um—I'm just—just hang on for a bit, okay? It's gonna be okay, I'm . . . you're gonna be okay, Rythian, just—one sec, just one sec, I'll take care of you—"

She darted off. All the blankets came off the beds in a flurry, and she hauled them back over to him, draping them over his back, wrapping them around him as best she could, given his huddled position. She brought him a canteen of warm water, which he was shaking too hard to drink—he mostly ended up spilling it all over his face before he gave up. She mixed up a health potion—at least what she _hoped_ was a health potion, it had been a long time since they'd needed anything of the sort—while Rythian slid out of the chair and curled up on the floor, drawing the blankets around him as close as he could.

With help, he managed to drink the whole potion. Afterwards, he keeled over, very slowly, to lie on his side on the floor, his hands bunched in the blankets, his knees drawn up to his chin. The shaking seemed to be getting worse. Tears prickled at Zoey's eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to force herself to stay calm, to focus.

"What do I _do?"_ she said to herself, her voice cracking.

If Rythian had heard, he clearly had no input. The force of his trembling was pushing involuntary whimpers through his lips, stained pink with the remains of the potion.

Zoey looked over her shoulder, as though hoping someone would come through the tent flap. She looked back to Rythian and whined again, twining her fingers together.

"I'm going for help," she declared, getting to her feet. Rythian's eyes snapped open and he struggled to get upright.

"No—no," he said, shaking his head, hopelessly tangled in the blankets. She put her hands on his shoulders, shaking nearly as badly as he was.

"I'll be right back, I promise. I _promise,_ Rythian, it's going to be all right, but you need help, and I can't help, I don't know what to do, so I'm going to find somebody who _can_ help and I'll be right back and it's going to be okay, all right? I promise it'll be okay."

He raised his eyes to meet hers, with a lethargy that implied great effort. His gaze was unfocused, the light of his eyes gone completely dark.

"Zoey. . . ." he said.

She hugged him tightly, then hurried out into the storm, praying he would still be breathing when she returned.

* * *

 

"I can't see there's anything wrong with him," the doctor said, scratching her wrinkly head.

Zoey put her head in her hands and leaned her elbows on the table. On the other side of the room, Rythian had hidden under his bed, still shaking himself to bits.

"How's that possible?" she asked, her voice thick. "There's _definitely_ something wrong with him, I mean, there's got to be."

"Hmm," said the doctor. "Phrased badly, perhaps. I have no idea what's wrong with him, then. As far as I can tell, it's not life-threatening. Just extremely unpleasant."

The nasal drone of her voice was drilling into Zoey's head.

"What can we do?" she asked. "I mean, to help. Is there anything. . . ?"

The doctor shrugged. "Keep him warm. Lots of rest. Lots of fluids, if he can drink them. Easy-to-digest foods, like rice, or anything sugary. Definitely not anything he was eating earlier today or yesterday."

She raised her head. "You think it might be that?"

"I have no idea," she repeated. "But it's better to play it safe, hmm?"

Zoey sighed. "Right," she said. "Thanks anyway."

The doctor reached across the table and patted Zoey's organic arm. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help. If he gets any worse, let me know."

Nodding, Zoey promised that she would. The doctor patted her arm again and started to go. Halfway to the door, she paused, wrinkling her whole wrinkly face in consideration.

"And you're _sure_ he doesn't take any drugs?" she asked, musing.

"Huh?" said Zoey. Her mind spun. "Um, I mean, not really? I guess he sort of . . . he sort of likes to drink a lot—well, not _likes,_ exactly, but he does it—oh, but not recently, not for like, two or three weeks, as far as I know, um, and, yeah."

The doctor shook her head. "I don't think that'd do it. Have to be something much harder, hmm? Why don't we ask him?"

"I don't think he—" Zoey began, but the doctor had already crossed to the bed and squatted down next to it, her old knees creaking.

"Sir?" she asked. "One last question."

Rythian did not reply. His breath was chopped to bits by the chattering of his teeth.

The doctor looked up at Zoey. The wrinkles around her dark eyes deepened.

"Would you mind stepping out for a moment, miss?" she asked.

Zoey flushed, and started to object, because of _course_ Rythian didn't have any secrets from her, there was nothing for him to say that he couldn't say in front of her, and he was ill and she'd left him alone too long already—but in the end she just buttoned her lip and left the tent.

Outside, the wind hissed and roared around her, blasting her skin with sand. She turned her back to the prevailing wind and pulled her shirt up over her nose, tugged her goggles down over her face. The world turned purple, and bright sparks glittered like constellations over her vision, neatly labeled. She blinked, adjusting—in all the commotion, she'd forgotten what the goggles were actually _for._

It had been two weeks since Rythian's grisly experiment, and things had been going swimmingly. He'd helped her make the goggles of revealing—the ones currently on her face—and taken her down the river to inspect and siphon every glowing magical node they could find. She'd started working on a way to power her arm with magic, and to her surprise he'd seemed genuinely interested, had even offered to help. Work had been going swiftly, and they hadn't had a single fight in the past fourteen days, even when Zoey had stayed the night at Fiona's on a whim, even when she'd come back the next afternoon blushing and unkempt.

It had all been going so _well._ In hindsight, it seemed inevitable that something horrendous would come along to ruin it.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was the doctor, shielding her eyes against the blowing sand. She beckoned Zoey inside.

"Is he. . . ?" Zoey began. The doctor shook her head.

"No such luck," the doctor said, keeping her voice low. "Either it's not withdrawal, or he's committed to keeping any drug use secret."

"Oh," said Zoey.

"For his sake, I hope it's the second one," she sighed. "At least it'd be over in a few days, if it was withdrawal. Either that, or somebody's poisoned him."

Her gaze was sharp on Zoey's face. Zoey hardly noticed—a hole had opened up inside her.

_"Poison?"_ she whispered.

"I'm not ruling anything out."

Something in the tone of her voice caught Zoey's attention. She took a half step back, alarmed.

"You—you don't think _I—"_

"No," the doctor said gently. "I don't think you. _But,_ if he's not better in a week, I'm taking him to hospital whether he likes it or not, hmm."

From under the bed, there was a low, shuddering growl. Both women stared at the bed for a moment before turning back to each other.

"Um," said Zoey, "are you sure he shouldn't go now? I mean, it's not that I don't want him here, or—or anything like that, just, um, maybe it would be better if—if people could look after him. Y'know, people who know what they're doing."

"Personally, I don't think it's that serious," the doctor said, tucking her hands into her sleeves. "At least, not right now. If he can't eat for a few days, hmm, that's a little different."

"Oh. Um, but, but what if he gets worse?"

She shrugged. "Then you come get me, and we'll see what can be done."

"Oh," Zoey said again. She fidgeted, then sighed. "How much do we owe you?"

The doctor told her—a modest sum, but perhaps too much, considering how little had been done. Zoey paid her and she left, ducking out into the blasting sand. Zoey fastened the flap closed behind her, then stood staring down at the flapping fabric, her mind spinning, but empty.

From behind her, there was a quiet, shivering call of, "Z-Zoey?"

She hurried over to the bed and knelt down. Underneath, the purple ember glow of Rythian's eyes was the only part of him that was distinct amongst the mess of blankets.

"I'm here," she said.

He did not reply, but his eyes roved over her face, unfocused.

Slowly, she held out a hand to him, stretching her fingers into the darkness under the bed.

From the blankets, his hand emerged, trembling, and clasped hers. His grip was firm, but not painful, and Zoey was almost comforted until the thought occurred to her that, were their positions reversed, she would be holding as tight as she could.

Maybe, she thought, that _was_ as tight as he could.

She shifted to a more comfortable position and resolved to stay by his side through the night.

* * *

 

It was mostly by accident that they found out about the sugar.

After half a day and a whole night of lying on the floor and shivering, Rythian was starting to look worryingly faint, in addition to his whole host of other problems. Zoey had tried making him several different foods—plain rice, mushroom stew, even chicken broth that she forced herself to buy—but he could manage no more than a mouthful before he was pushing it away, looking sicker than ever. Finally Zoey gave up on normal cuisine and dumped three spoonfuls of sugar into a glass of warm water and stirred until it stopped crunching.

Rythian had taken a single, tentative sip, and then chugged the entire glass without coming up for air. The light came back on behind his eyes, but it was a feverish, fiery sort of light, and it made Zoey uncomfortable.

Over the next few days, he consumed their entire supply of sugar with a spoon. There was hardly an hour of the day when he wasn't eating it out of the jar. As time passed, he seemed to get better—the shaking subsided, he was able to drink and eat other things—but the sugar remained constant, and when they ran out, he was quite desperate for Zoey to procure more.

She'd come home with raw sugar cane, saying it was the best she could find. He'd snatched it out of the bag and started chewing on it.

Now, finally, after a week of fear and confusion, things seemed to have settled. It was midafternoon and Rythian hadn't touched a piece of sugar cane. He was sitting at his desk, fiddling with his thaumaturgy, his face expressionless.

"Hey," Zoey said, setting down her half-magic power cell. "D'you think you could give me a hand with this? It keeps eating the gold wires."

"Does it," said Rythian.

"Er . . . yes. It does. D'you know . . . anything I can do about that?"

"Don't use magic?" he suggested impertinently.

"If that's all the help you're going to be—" she started, and cut herself off, clenching her jaw and sighing heavily. "Never mind. Sorry I asked."

There was a prolonged silence.

"Sorry," Rythian mumbled. "That was rude."

"A bit," Zoey allowed. "I forgive you. I mean, you haven't been well, and everything, so, it's okay! A little rudeness is, y'know, forgiveable."

He shook his head. "It shouldn't be."

"Not this again," she said to herself. "Look, Rythian, please don't start beating yourself up again. You were doing really good for a while! I mean, before all this . . . mess happened. Maybe . . . maybe we could just do that? I liked that."

"I'll . . . try," he said. "Zoey, I—I think I know. What was wrong with me."

She sat up a little straighter. "You do? What was it? Or, is it? I mean, it seems like it's over, but I guess you'd know best, but—you _are_ better, aren't you?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. He was stabbing his desk methodically with the tip of his writing quill.

"Mostly," he said. "I'm . . . back to normal. I wouldn't say _better._ I think _better_ is what I was before."

"I can't argue with you on that one," she said.

She saw the miniscule flinch, the little crack in his composure that meant she'd said something wrong.

"I mean, you—you seemed happier!" she hastened to add. "You seemed like you were, y'know, better off. Not like, y'know, you were a better person, or anything, just you seemed like—oh, you know what I mean."

"Yes," he said darkly. "I know exactly what you meant."

She ignored this, having walked that conversational path one too many times already.

"So, but, what happened to you? 'Cause it'd be really for the best if it never ever happens again."

"I think—" he began, and stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, monotonous, almost hypnotized. "I think it was the magic."

"The . . . magic?" she said. "Which magic? Is it—am I going to—"

"No," he said.

"Oh. So the . . . the _other_ magic, then."

"I think so."

"I _knew_ it was no good," she said. "It's horrible twelve ways over."

"I'm going to test it."

She stared at him. "You can't be serious," she said.

"I have to know. I have to _know,_ what it is I've made. And if it's not the magic, then it was something else and it might happen again anyway. Isn't it better to know?"

"Not if it means doing horrible—awful horrible things!" she cried.

"It's only blood, Zoey."

"But look at what it _did_ to you!"

"I have," he said calmly. "And we both agreed that I was better."

The words fell out of her head and she had to fumble to pick them back up.

"That—but you—but that had nothing to do with it!" she managed.

"You weren't in here," Rythian said, tapping his own temple with a fingertip. "I was."

"Well? So? So what if it did—y'know, make you happy for like, two weeks, was it worth it? With everything that happened afterwards, you _can't_ tell me it was _worth_ it!"

He mulled this over, chewing the inside of his lip.

"I just want to experiment," he said at last. "Just once. It's science, I'm sure you understand."

"I'd understand if it was a—a computer, or, like, a machine or something," she said. "But it's not those things, it's _you,_ and I don't . . . I don't know why you'd do that to yourself."

He laughed, a humorless and hollow sound.

"Then you must not be paying attention," he said.

Her sinuses prickled. She blinked rapidly, trying to push down the tears, shove them back where they came from.

"Rythian," she said, "please. Please, don't do this. Pretty please with a cherry on top, don't do this to yourself." She hesitated, then added, "For me."

His head snapped up, and to her horror, there was anger carved into every line of his face.

"I thought you were better than that," he spat.

She took a step back. "N-no, I didn't mean—"

"Shut up," he said, and shoved himself to his feet, and stalked out.

Zoey managed to keep from breaking down until his footfalls had crunched into silence.

* * *

 

Fiona had given up trying to make conversation after only a few minutes. She and Zoey had eaten dinner together in silence, and now she was cradling Zoey in her arms as they sat together on her threadbare sofa, running her fingers through Zoey's hair.

"I really messed up," Zoey said. Just the sound of her own voice, stuffy and rusted, was enough to bring the tears back to her eyes. She'd been crying off and on for hours, and wiped at her cheeks angrily.

"I'm listening," Fiona said, her voice gentle. "I promise I won't judge."

"It's just—I don't understand. I don't understand why he _does_ this to himself, why he won't just leave it alone, and I _know_ it's bad for him and _he_ knows it's bad for him and he was so ill and I was so worried and now he's just going to go running right back and I don't _understand."_

Zoey sniffled. Fiona stopped petting her hair and laid her hand on her shoulder instead.

"I didn't . . . I didn't _mean_ to . . . I mean, I didn't _mean_ it like that, I wasn't trying to—to push him around, or—or, like, make him angry, I just—I thought, if he doesn't care about himself, and he doesn't, he _said_ he doesn't, but I know he cares about me and I thought, if he won't stop for his sake, maybe he'd—maybe he'd stop for mine. . . ."

Her voice gave out, and she sobbed. Fiona squeezed her close, pressing her lips to the top of Zoey's head.

"He was s-so angry," Zoey blubbered, hiding her face in her hands. "He was so _angry_ and I w-was so _scared. . . ."_

Fiona's fingers tightened on her arms. Zoey could feel the steel rising in her arms, suffusing her bones.

"It'll be all right, Zoey," she said, and the steel was in her voice, too. "I'm here. You're safe. It's going to be all right."

Zoey sniffled, and scrubbed the tears and snot off her face, and curled up close against Fiona, letting the strength of her arms guard against all the fear outside.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Strife had planned to use the room to house a reactor, once he'd dug up enough uranium. It was a shallow quarry, abandoned when a different site had struck richer veins. It was a huge room, and the altar, squat and ugly and placed dead center, looked diminutive compared to it.

Strife was kneeling next to the altar, the horrible dagger in his hand, the book lying open by his knee. He'd been functioning in a haze of tension for hours—he had no idea how many. He'd hardly seen the dagger as he'd chipped it out of the glass and iron, hardly looked at the altar as he carved it into shape.

He still wasn't seeing any of it. He was far too lost inside his head, bouncing between years like a ball pinging off the walls of a glass case.

There had been two altars like this one. There had been three knives like this one. One of each had been his, and oh, how sweet they had been, how kind to him, until he'd abandoned them and they'd abandoned him in return.

And there were the others, of course; endless nights of fear and pain and the sound of laughter ringing in his ears. He hadn't understood what was happening then. He understood now.

"Never again," he said to himself. Those two words had become his rock as he'd fought through the fog of exhaustion and the relentless tension. _Never again._

Parvis had looked _just like_ Rythian, striding in rage from the door of his hovel, sword raised to strike a killing blow. The thought drifted through Strife's brain that he had no idea what had happened to Smiffy—for it must have been Smiffy, cowering on the ground and screaming in terror as Parvis bore down on him. Strife presumed he was dead. So much the better. Maybe Parvis was dead, too.

But if he wasn't, then this was necessary. It was clear that Parvis had gone bad, had staggered off the straight and narrow and tumbled right down into the valley cut by the rivers of blood Rythian had unleashed. It was possible that everyone else was already under his control, milling aimlessly like the livestock he'd make them. Strife would rather have died than joined them.

He remembered what Parvis was like.

"Never again," he said.

Hands shaking, he pricked his finger on the tip of the dagger.

And suddenly the world was _wonderful._

The tension melted from his body, leaving him to topple bonelessly to the floor. The haze dissipated, and his vision became clear and colorful and bright. He breathed for the first time in three months. His heart remembered how to beat. Warmth suffused his skin and washed the aches from his bones. Unbidden, a laugh bubbled through his lips, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, blinking tears from his eyes. He was dizzy, unsteady, but _God_ he felt so good, he felt so _good_ he couldn't imagine how he'd lived before.

Strife lay still for several minutes, simply reveling in the taste of the air, the rush of blood in his veins. Next to him, the altar burbled like a mountain stream.

"I know," he said to it, letting his hand slip from his mouth. "I know, right?"

Finally, he picked himself up off the floor. He saw spots when he stood up, but they quickly cleared. It occurred to him that it would be beneficial to check on how things were progressing outside—if it _had_ all gone wrong, he could blow Parvis's head off before it got worse; and if it hadn't, he could stop by Nano's and get something to eat before he went to bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but he knew it had been too long ago.

He strapped the plasma rifle to his hip and headed upstairs. Outside, it was raining, a steady downpour that had him soaked to the skin within a minute. The lights were out at Parvis's hut, but on at Nano's, so Strife headed to the latter.

He looked in the windows as he approached. The three newcomers—all three of them—were sitting in the corner booth, hunched and sullen. Smiffy was scuffed with dirt, but otherwise seemed none the worse for wear. Zoey was sitting with Parvis at a table against the wall, neither one of them speaking, neither one looking at the other. Parvis was still wearing the bandanna over his mouth. Nano was behind the bar, polishing glasses and scowling.

Strife ducked inside and wiped the water out of his face. There was a sound of breaking glass, and Nano went clean over the bar. She rushed over to him and stopped short, her hands half outstretched.

"Oh my God, where have you _been?"_ she demanded. "We were worried sick! I went looking for you up on the roof and you weren't there and I don't know _what_ I thought had happened to you but I _know_ it wasn't good and Lom and Nilesy are out looking for you—"

"Nano," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking her in the eyes. "I'm fine."

"I—oh," she said, deflating. "Yeah, I mean, yeah, I can see that. But where have you _been?"_

"Home?" he offered. "I was at home."

"We looked there! I know we looked there, we looked _everywhere—"_

"Even the basement?" he asked, his mouth curling in a smile.

Nano cursed. "I'll bet they didn't. Stupid. But you're—okay? You're all right?"

"Yeah," he said. "What happened? What's all this?" He gestured to the newcomers and threw a glance at Parvis.

Parvis, who was looking at him _very_ oddly, his eyes narrowed above the black cloth of the bandanna. Strife clasped his hands behind his back and turned his attention back to Nano.

"It's . . . oh, _I_ don't know." She turned to Zoey. "Why don't _you_ tell it?"

"Because I wasn't there?" Zoey guessed. "Parvis can tell it."

"I would really rather not," he said quickly.

"Bastard went fucking _crazy,_ is what happened," Smiffy spat. "One stupid question, and he was gonna cut my fucking head off. I ask you!"

"Ought to be in a straight jacket," Trott said.

"Lock him up. Send him to the funny farm!" Ross agreed.

"You don't understand," Parvis said, his voice strained, each word pronounced with sharp precision.

"Yeah? Well it's a bit hard to understand anything when a fucking _loony's_ tryin' to lop your head off!" Smiffy retorted, rising. Ross caught him by the arm and pulled him back down into his seat.

"And it wasn't because you _asked,"_ Parvis went on, the bandanna twitching as he spoke. "It's because you said, and I fucking quote, _blood magic? That sounds awesome!"_

"It fuckin' does!" Smiffy snarled. This time it was Trott who pulled him back down into his seat.

"Stop," Zoey said. "Parvis, he doesn't know. Did you explain? Did you, maybe, try to explain why it's not awesome? At all?"

Some color rose to Parvis's cheeks, half-hidden behind black cloth. He looked at his hands.

"He wouldn't've listened," he mumbled. _"I_ didn't."

Zoey patted his hand. "Okay. Look, why don't you stay here, and I'll talk to Smiffy and explain, all right?"

"You don't have to—"

"It's fine. I really don't mind."

Strife watched Smiffy. Now that he was looking, there _was_ something distinctly Parvis-esque about him—the sullen insolence, the constant power-tripping, the absolute ineffectuality.

It was almost cute.

"I'll do it," Strife said. He licked his lips and resisted the urge to look down at his mouth, wondering where the words had come from.

There was a beat of silence where everyone stared at him. He shrugged.

"What?" he said.

"Are you, um. . . ." Nano began, fidgeting. "Are you _sure?"_

"Yeah," said Strife. "Why not?"

"Well, um," said Zoey, "I mean, it's not like you _shouldn't,_ just, you haven't really been, um, well. And it's—it's really super that you're wanting to talk about things, but, just, maybe this isn't the right . . . time and place?"

Strife considered this. She probably had a point; he hadn't been there for most of the worst of it, or at least so he'd gathered—then again, neither had Zoey.

"Okay," he said. "Sure, I guess Parvis is the guy to ask, if you want to know _everything."_

"Strife," Nano said softly, edging closer to him, casting shifty glances around the restaurant. "Are you _sure_ you're all right?"

"Yeah," he said.

Parvis stood up and crossed the restaurant.

"You don't have to," Zoey said, rising as she watched him go.

"I do," he said. He slid into the booth across from the three newcomers and folded his hands. "Let me—" he said, and stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, and full of regret.

"Let me tell you a story. . . ."

* * *

 

Smiffy sat back, wide-eyed, and shivered. The other two had gone pale fifteen minutes into the telling and now looked like they were going to be sick. Strife had sat down at the counter, and Nano had settled in next to him. Parvis's voice trailed to silence, worn out.

"Okay," Smiffy said faintly. "Not awesome. I get that. _Not_ awesome."

Trott shuddered and said something under his breath. Ross rubbed his mouth with a hand.

Strife saw all this out of his peripheral vision. He had eyes for Parvis alone.

Parvis, who had endured so much, who had fought tooth and nail at every turn, who had struggled against Rythian and the magic and himself and had somehow come out of it all alive, who had, after everything, _come back for him._

Guilt sloshed in his stomach. He looked away. He hadn't known, of course, everything that Parvis had been through—he'd known only one side of the equation, had only seen and known the monster who laughed at others' pain and grinned with a mouth full of razors.

And there sat Parvis, the man who had vanquished that monster, cursed to bear its likeness forever.

Next to him, Nano said, very softly, "Parvis, I'm sorry."

Parvis shrugged and got to his feet. "Don't be," he said.

"I shot you," she pointed out.

"I was going to kill him," Parvis answered, jerking a thumb at Smiffy, "so it's probably for the best you did."

Zoey had stood as well, and now she crossed to Parvis's side and held out a hand. He took it without hesitation. The two of them looked at each other for a timeless moment, saying nothing. Zoey squeezed his hand. Parvis nearly smiled.

"Let me walk you home?" she offered.

"Sure," said Parvis. The two of them left together, hand in hand.

Strife felt, rather than saw, the eyes of the newcomers turn to him.

"Um," Smiffy said, "Strife, uh . . . listen, buddy. . . ."

Strife looked at him. A swirl of bubbles scurried across his face in what was probably a blush.

"He's not your buddy, mate," Trott said.

"Look, shut up, this is hard, okay?" Smiffy snapped. He composed himself, although he did not look at Strife again. "I'm . . . sorry. Right? Okay, good, done, can we _go_ now?"

"You call _that_ an apology?" Nano demanded.

"He's never done one before, cut him a bit of slack," Ross said.

"Yeah, no, it's fine," Strife said. "Smiffy, right? Apology accepted."

"Oh? Oh, er, right, yeah, that's . . . good." He leaned over to Trott and whispered, "That's good, right?"

"For fuck's sake, Smiff," Trott sighed. He got to his feet, and the other two followed suit. "Hopeless."

"Oy, I am _not_ hopeless," Smiffy said, bristling. "I've just done an apology! A proper fuckin' _apology,_ Trott! What've you done today?"

"Not almost gotten myself killed, is what I've done."

"Wasn't _my_ fault," he grumbled. "How was _I_ to know?"

"Smiff, mate, it's called _blood magic,"_ Ross said. "Bit of a giveaway, hm? Ain't it?"

"Shut up, you'd've done the same."

Still bickering, the three left. The bell over the door tinkled behind them.

Strife and Nano sat in silence for a long minute before she finally spoke.

"I'm not sure what's happened with you," she said, her voice quiet, "but . . . I'm glad."

He started, recoiling slightly. "You—you are? Why?"

A flimsy laugh curled out between her lips. "Because you finally seem _happy,_ Strife. You seem—you seem _okay._ And I don't know why it's happened or how long it'll last, but I just wanted you to know that—that I'm really glad for you. And that I hope you get to keep it."

He let this sink in for a moment before replying.

"Hey, y'know, me too," he said. "And uh . . . thanks. Y'know, for looking after me up 'til now."

"Seems like the least I could do," she said. "Y'know, it's just . . . I've been thinking a lot about you—about _it,_ I mean, about what happened—"

She was blushing, twining her fingers together, her eyes darting back and forth over the bar and never looking at him.

"Uh-huh?" he said.

"And—and, well, it's just . . . no one's really known what to do with you. _For_ you, I mean. Y'know, because—because we've all lost someone, everyone lost someone down there, and we sort of know how to deal with that, between each other, but you—Strife, you lost _yourself,_ and I never knew what to _say._ I don't think anybody did. It was like . . . trying not to mention you in front of you. Y'know? I'm not making any sense."

"No, I . . . I get it," he said, touched. "It's okay. I mean, I gotta be honest with you, I didn't really know what to do with me, either, so it's not just you."

She smiled, briefly. "S'pose that's good to know." There was a pause, and then she asked, "What _has_ changed?"

"Y'know, I wish I knew," he lied. The words were almost sweet on his tongue. "If I'd synthesized the secret to getting better in my basement, believe me, I'd be sharing it with everybody."

"Well, I'm sure we'd all appreciate it if you kept working on it anyway."

He noticed that she was shivering. Gently, he touched her shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "Are _you_ okay?"

She bit her lip, then shook her head.

"I was so worried about you," she said, her voice thick. "I was so worried something awful had happened to you, all alone up on the roof or wherever, and no one would be there to help, and I just—I'm just glad you didn't see it, because God, Strife, he looked—Parvis, he looked _just like Rythian. . . ."_

Strife clicked his teeth. "No wonder you shot him," he said. He recalled the event hazily, as though he'd seen it in a dream, or watched it on a screen several years ago. It was a comforting distance.

"I . . . was trying to—" She broke off, putting a hand over her mouth.

"To kill him," Strife completed.

"Yes!" she burst out. A pair of tears rolled down her cheeks. "Yes, God, I wasn't even thinking, I just—I just saw him and I thought—and he looked—and I just grabbed the thing, and thank God my aim's so poor—"

"Nano," Strife said gently, squeezing her shoulder. She sniffled and scrubbed at her face. "It's okay."

"It's not!" she cried. "You heard him, you heard what he's been through, and all this time I've been so horrible because—because of things I don't even really remember and because I was so _angry_ about Lalna and I didn't have anyone else to blame, and it's not fair, and I might've _killed_ him, Strife!"

"I mean, if you want me to take the gun back," he offered.

"No," she said firmly. "You weren't using it anyway, you won't use it if you take it back."

"Neither will you," he said.

She chewed her lip, then decided, "No. I'm keeping it. Just . . . just in case."

"Hey, fine. For what it's worth, I probably would've done the same thing."

"Would you?"

Strife thought of the altar, buried deep under his house; the knife marking his place in the book; the plasma rifle still strapped to his hip.

"Oh yeah," he assured her. "Definitely."

Carefully, she reached up and touched his hand. Sparks skittered out under his skin at the contact, but for once they weren't unpleasant.

"Thanks, Strife," she said. "That . . . that helps."

"Anytime," he promised. "I mean, I'm glad he _isn't_ dead, y'know, but I get where you're coming from."

She looked up, frowning. "You are?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"I guess—I mean, I thought you . . . hated him."

"Well—well I might've . . . y'know, maybe said some things," he allowed, taking his hand back and folding it on the bar. "I mean, nobody's like, best friends with the guy, how could you be? But I didn't want him dead, no, of course not."

"Strife," Nano said quietly. "What happened between you two?"

Parvis had left those particular details out of his storytelling. He'd only said that Strife had it the worst of anyone, that Rythian had taken a personal interest in him, and therefore Parvis, in his darker moments, had been compelled to indulge in that interest. The implications had been clear, but Strife was grateful for the omission of detail. It wasn't something anyone else needed to know.

"It—y'know," said Strife, fidgeting. "Y'know, uh. Not much—not much different than everybody else. There was some uh—some, y'know . . . wholesale torture . . . but it's really not important—"

Nano's eyes had bugged out, and she had recoiled.

Something awoke in Strife's depths, thrashing and snapping its teeth. She was recoiling from _him?_ When _he_ was the one who'd been cut and beaten and choked and _ruined?_ When he was broken, and she hadn't so much as blinked when Parvis had confessed to _doing_ it all?

He noticed that his hands had tightened on the bar, white-knuckled. He forced himself to calm down, to find that center of contentment that had bloomed in the light of the altar in his basement.

"But it was mostly Rythian," he added. "And y'know . . . Parvis wasn't himself."

"I'm . . . I'm so sorry," Nano said, sounding stunned. "We—I guess we all sort of . . . sort of _guessed,_ but. . . . Are you—I mean, do you . . . do you want to talk about it, or anything? I mean, I'm—I don't really—"

"Don't really know what to do with me, huh?" he asked. "Well, you could walk me home, for a start."

"R-really? I mean, of course! Yeah, any time!"

He smiled at her. "It really is okay, Nano," he said. "I really am okay."

She searched his face, concerned. After a moment, she relaxed, and hesitantly returned his smile.

"Okay," she said. "I believe you."

* * *

 

Strife awoke in the middle of the night in abject terror, paralyzed, suffocating, crushed under the weight of it.

Someone was touching his face.

The backs of two knuckles, resting ever so lightly against his cheek, unnaturally warm. The scent of blood, thick in the air. The prickling brainstem sense of being watched.

His eyes snapped open in terror.

Rythian was standing over him. The red sparks of his eyes narrowed to crescent moons, bright against the darkness.

"Oh, Strife," he breathed, "I _missed_ you."

Strife sat bolt-upright, gasping for breath, his heart jackhammering at his ribs. His cheek burned, and the twin sparks still swam before his eyes. He was drenched in a cold sweat, and his clumsy hands knocked the disassembler to the floor before he could grab it. He sat hunched on the bed, one hand still outstretched, immobilized.

"He's dead," he said to himself. "He's dead, it's over, he's _dead._ Just a dream, Strife, pull yourself together."

The house hummed around him. He could not shake the feeling of being watched.

Strife braced himself, then leapt from the bed and landed on the disassembler, hauling it up with him, prepared to strike at anything that moved. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. The room was cold, but his skin was feverishly hot.

After a long minute of stillness, Strife lowered the disassembler, but only by a fraction. He made his cursory search of the house, checking every corner and cubby, no matter how small.

It must have been a dream; that was the only logical explanation. But up until now, Strife had only dreamed in memories, and _that_ had never happened, he was sure of it.

For one thing, Rythian had _never_ called him by his name.

The door to the magic room exerted a field of dread, and it stopped Strife in his tracks before he was ten feet away. His hands were clenched so tightly on the disassembler that his fingers were going numb.

"Stupid," he muttered. "Nothing in there. _He's_ not in there. He's dead. Just a _dream,_ Strife. Christ's sake."

But he stood where he was, and stared at the door, and his heart beat faster with every passing second until he felt it would achieve a single tone.

"He's _dead,"_ Strife growled, and stormed to the door, and kicked it open.

The room inside was empty. The runes on the altar glowed faintly. Strife made a beeline for the book and flipped the front cover open.

He stayed there for a few minutes, while his heart rate returned to normal and his breathing steadied. The coordinates under the name were unchanged. Rythian was still in his grave. It was only a dream.

Strife sat back and rubbed his face. A nervous chuckle pushed out of him. As the surge of adrenaline died down, his body went weak and floaty. He hardly minded; after all, there was no immediate danger, apart from some sleep deprivation.

Getting to his feet, he nudged the book closed with his toe. His foot touched the knife, almost knocking it out of place. He paused, looking down at it, considering.

It was supremely easy to make up the lost blood—it only took a healing potion, and he could make one of those in his sleep. He would very much like to sleep, although with all the adrenaline still suffusing his body, it was a long ways off.

That was, he thought, a fixable problem.

"Just this once," he said to himself, stooping down to pick up the knife.

And moments later, he sank to the floor, dizzy and exhausted and utterly blissful.

He slept in the magic room that night, and couldn't have cared less.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Two more perfect weeks had passed, and Rythian was sitting at his desk, placidly waiting for it to all go wrong. Zoey had brought Fiona over, ostensibly in case Rythian needed her help, but actually because she was concerned they might have to physically restrain him from taking the knife to himself before his symptoms tapered off on their own.

He had been talking about the knife a lot.

"Maybe it was a one-time thing," he mused. He had the tip of one finger on the end of the hilt of the knife, standing it up on its point in the table. He was using his other fingers to twirl it absently, drilling a shallow hole into the wood. "That would be nice."

"Mm," Zoey agreed. She had, for no particular reason, chosen to sit in the corner of the tent farthest from Rythian. "Then you can put all this horrible stuff away and not worry about it ever again."

"Well, no," said Rythian, "because I'd still have to work out why it happened the first time. It would just be less . . . uncomfortable to get there."

Zoey cast a worried glance at Fiona, who was leaning up against a tent pole with her arms folded. She was watching Rythian, eagle-eyed, and did not notice Zoey looking at her. Zoey sighed.

"Is it really that important?" she asked. "I mean, really, is it _really_ that important, if it's not going to happen again?"

"Important? No, but it's _interesting._ I've made something, Zoey, I think I'm allowed to be a little fascinated by it."

"A little, sure," Fiona said, an edge to her voice.

Rythian threw her a patronizing look. "I'm sorry I'm not dull enough for you," he said, his voice lilting. He had stopped twirling the knife, and all his fingers were resting on the hilt.

The steel rose in Fiona's bones; Zoey could see it in the subtle shift of her posture.

"Um," Zoey said, before either of them could say anything else, "I mean, if it's all okay, and Rythian's not going to get super sick again, then I guess we don't really need to be here. Doing this. Um. Right?"

"No, probably not," said Rythian. He gave the knife a final twirl and plucked it up out of the table, hopping to his feet.

Fiona sank halfway into a fighting stance, so quickly that it must have been reflexive. Rythian eyed her for a moment, then raised his hands and smiled.

"You really are _convinced_ I'm up to no good, aren't you?" he said.

"It'd help if you put the knife away," Fiona replied, not budging an inch.

"The—oh," said Rythian. He looked at the knife in his hand as though he'd only just realized it was there. He laughed sheepishly and set it down on the table. "There, better? Should I back away slowly?"

"I don't think—" Zoey began.

"Yes," Fiona said.

Rythian took a step back, then another.

"Fi, I think this might be a little, um, unnecessary?" Zoey suggested.

Fiona's jaw clenched, and she sighed out a breath through her nose. She relaxed by a few degrees.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just a little on-edge today."

"It's okay," Zoey assured her. "Just, um . . . y'know, I really don't think anybody's going to get hurt. I would, actually, really like it if nobody got hurt. Um. Really nobody."

"Right," said Fiona, scratching the back of her head. There was a faint blush tinging her cheeks. "Okay, well, I'll just . . . I'll just put this away somewhere—"

She reached out a hand for the knife. Rythian moved so fast that Zoey didn't even see it happen—one moment he was standing five feet away, and the next his hand slammed down on top of the knife so hard it made the whole table jump. He looked straight into Fiona's startled face and smiled, although there was something crazed about the wideness of his eyes.

"Please don't touch that," he said pleasantly.

Fiona, recovering from the surprise, narrowed her eyes and demanded, "Why?"

"Because it's mine," he snapped. He paused, inclined his head, and continued more calmly. "And because I'm not sure what touching it might do to you. Since I haven't had the chance to work out exactly what made me so ill the first time."

She stared him down for a good five seconds, then pointed out, "You could've just said."

Rythian blinked a couple of times and frowned. "Sorry, what? I sort of . . . zoned out for a second there."

"Oh," said Zoey, feeling dread curl bone-white fingers around her stomach. "Um. Rythian, um, maybe you should . . . put the knife down. Okay?"

"What?" he asked, turning to her. "Why?"

Slowly, she got up and edged towards him. Fiona's eyes widened in alarm, and Zoey met her gaze and shook her head, almost imperceptibly. Fiona got the message and she stayed where she was, saying nothing.

"You're not really going to be using it, right now, I mean, right?" Zoey said, still sidling closer. She held out a hand to Rythian. "Just . . . let me take care of it for a bit, okay?"

"No," said Rythian, "why would . . . I. . . ." He shook his head sharply. "I don't . . . I don't feel. . . ."

"I know, yeah, I know," said Zoey. She was within arm's reach of the knife now, but it was still pinned under Rythian's hand. "Not a one-time thing, okay, so you should probably go lie down before you, like, fall over or something. Okay? Just, here, let me—"

She made a grab for the knife. Rythian snatched it out of her grasp and staggered back out of reach. His eyes were fever bright. He shivered.

"No," he said, his voice heavy. "Not just a one-time . . . thing. Not at all. Hah. But f-fixable."

"Don't let him," Zoey blurted.

Fiona vaulted over the table, beelining for Rythian. He stumbled backwards until his back hit the kitchen counter, and then the blade flashed up and Fiona came to a screeching halt.

The tip of the dagger drew little figure-eights in the air as Rythian shivered. He was only remaining upright by propping himself up on the kitchen counter. His face was lined with pain.

"Don't," he hissed, his eyes darting over Fiona's face.

She grabbed his outstretched wrist. He snarled like a wild animal and kicked her while she wrested the knife from his hand. Even once she'd gotten it away from him, he continued to fight to reclaim it until she shoved him to the ground. He sat there shivering, his eyes still fixed on the knife. Fiona stood over him, hardly out of breath.

Carefully, Zoey crossed the room and knelt next to Rythian.

"Zo," Fiona warned, steel in her voice.

"It's okay," Zoey assured her, then turned to Rythian. "It'll be okay. All right? It's just, like, a week, and you'll be fine. We've got a whole load of sugar, so—"

"It c-could be fine r-right now," he growled, teeth chattering.

"No," she said, "'cause in a week, it'd just happen again, and that's really not good."

"Y-you don't _unders-stand,"_ he said. The shivering had become quite violent.

Zoey looked up at Fiona. "Um, would you mind getting all the blankets? Like, really actually _all_ of them. Please?"

"Yeah, all right," Fiona said. She moved off, leaving the knife on Rythian's desk, and began collecting the blankets from the bed. Her hair brushed her shoulders as she bent to gather an armful of fabric, and the muscles of her back showed clearly through her shirt.

Zoey only realized she'd been staring when Rythian shoved her in the chest so hard it sent her sprawling.

"Hey!" she cried, scrambling to her feet. Fiona dropped her armful of blankets and whirled.

Rythian crashed into the table, snatched up the knife in clumsy fingers, and gashed open the inside of his arm.

Horrified, Zoey let out a squeak and clapped her hands over her mouth. Belatedly, Fiona rushed over and knocked the knife from Rythian's unresisting hand. Rythian sank to the floor, eyes closed, lips parted, while blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the sandy floor. Fiona eyed him, then hurried off to get bandages from the cabinets over the kitchen counter.

"Oh my gosh," Zoey said, rushing to Rythian's side. "Oh my goodness, oh my gosh, that looks bad, oh, ah, oh no, it's—it's bleeding a lot, you're, like, you're really bleeding a lot—"

"It's _fine,_ Zoey," he said, sounding happy as a clam. He still hadn't opened his eyes. "It doesn't even hurt. Well. It does hurt, but it doesn't matter."

"Scoot," Fiona said to Zoey, crouching down next to her. Zoey moved over, and Fiona took Rythian's arm, stretching it out so she could wrap a strip of gauze around it. Rythian shuddered when she touched him, and Zoey saw the goosebumps roll out across his skin.

"You really shouldn't do that," he breathed, letting his head fall back against the leg of the table.

Fiona wrinkled her nose and tied off the bandage. Blood was already soaking through it. She tore off another strip of gauze with her teeth and folded it up into a thick pad. She secured the pad over the wound with another length of gauze. Rythian's breath hitched every time her fingers brushed his skin.

"Should've let him bleed," Fiona muttered to herself, her voice dripping with disgust.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. It's not _aah_ . . . on purpose."

"What—" Zoey began, but the situation clicked in her head before she'd finished the question. A blush rose to her cheeks, so hot it made her scalp itch.

"Please don't make me explain," Rythian said, his mouth turned in a smile. "I really don't want to explain."

"N-no, I um, I sort of . . . think I've figured it out," Zoey said.

"Oh, God," Rythian remarked, and laughed helplessly.

Fiona got up and went to wash the blood of her hands. Rythian let his arm fall back to his side. His breathing was slow and deliberate, although Zoey could see the pulse pounding in his neck.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He laughed again. "For what?"

"For . . . I mean, y'know, now we're going to have to do this all over again in two weeks, 'cause we couldn't, like, stop you from—from, y'know."

"Who says?" Rythian asked. "Who says we have to do it all again? It's so much better this way, Zoey. _I'm_ so much better. Why can't we just stay like this?"

"Because it's _bad_ for you!" Zoey cried. "It's got to be, I mean, look at what it does when you stop doing it. There's no telling what it'll do if you—if you keep doing it, I mean, it might, like . . . it might . . . _kill_ you!"

"I don't think so," he said, shaking his head. "It only hurts when I stop."

Fiona came over and folded her arms, cocking a hip out to the side and looking down at Rythian critically.

"He's not serious, is he?" she asked.

"Of course I am," Rythian said, opening his eyes to look up at her. Fiona shrank away, and a moment later, so did Zoey.

Rythian's eyes, formerly a crystalline purple, had turned a dark and muddy red.

He frowned, glancing between the two of them.

"What?" he said.

"Y-your . . . your eyes. . . ." Fiona choked.

"Oh, _that,"_ said Rythian, relaxing. "They do that. It's nothing to worry about."

Fiona looked over at Zoey, her face drawn. Zoey fidgeted.

"I mean, I always just sort of thought I was remembering wrong," Zoey said. "Y'know, 'cause I thought they were blue, like, but they were purple actually, so I just figured I was, y'know, a bit wrong."

"You could have asked," Rythian said, pouting. "I thought you hadn't noticed."

"Look, interesting as all this is," Fiona cut in, "it's not really important just now. I think Zoey's right, Rythian, this—this blood-magic or whatever it is, it's dangerous, and it's got to stop."

"Sanguimancy," Rythian said dreamily. "It's called sanguimancy."

"It should be called a drug," Fiona declared.

"And you really probably should stop doing it before something awful happens," Zoey said. She glanced down at Rythian's arm, at the blood crusting on his skin, at the red droplets spattered over the sand.

"Something . . . more awful," she corrected herself.

Rythian gave her a pitying look. "Zoey," he said softly. "It's only blood."

"That's it," Fiona said. "I'm taking his knife away. Where'd the damn thing land. . . ?"

Rythian leaned over and plucked the knife up out of the sand. It had been knocked under the table in all the bustle.

"This knife?" he asked, his eyes sparkling.

Fiona went steely, setting her jaw and thrusting out a hand. "Give it," she ordered.

He smiled. "Pry it from my cold, dead fingers," he said sweetly.

"Rythian!" Zoey exclaimed, shocked.

"Zoey," he responded.

"Fine," Fiona said, and reached down to take it from him.

He caught her hand and very delicately pressed the blade to the inside of her wrist. Fiona froze. Zoey's whole body went cold.

"You know," he mentioned, "I don't actually know if it works on other people." He looked up and met Fiona's eyes. "Would you like to find out?"

"Stop," Zoey croaked. "Rythian, stop it, stop it right now."

He smiled. "Of course, Zoey."

The knife flipped up and he tucked it into his belt. He let go of Fiona's hand and she yanked it to her chest, backing away a few steps.

"Fuck this," she spat. Her voice shook. She turned on her heel and marched out.

"Wait, Fi!" Zoey called, scrambling to her feet. She hesitated, looking over her shoulder at Rythian. "I—she—you've _upset_ her!" she accused.

"No," Rythian said. "I scared her."

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she demanded, and hurried after Fiona before he could answer.

* * *

 

For the next week, Rythian kept mostly to himself. He was quietly polite at every opportunity, but never started conversations. He never took the knife out in front of her, but it was always in his belt. Eventually Zoey relented and decided to be friendly to him again.

For the two weeks after that, he was gone three nights out of seven. He never announced that he was leaving, and usually returned before dawn. Zoey thought about bringing it up, asking where he went, but since he never wore any marks of debauchery in the morning, and since he seemed to still be functioning well, she decided it was best left alone.

She herself was spending at least half her time with Fiona. They never spoke about Rythian.

Early in the fourth week, Zoey discovered that they had run out of food. She searched through the cabinets, pantry, and icebox, and found nothing at all.

"Rythian," she said, planting her fists on her hips. "Have you forgotten to buy groceries?"

He looked up from his work—currently, scribbling in a little leather-bound book.

"Hm?" he said.

"There's no food left in here."

"Oh," he said, craning his neck to peer at the empty cabinets. "I guess there isn't. Sorry, I've been a little absorbed."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You _have_ been eating, haven't you?" she asked.

He smiled and closed the book. "Of course I have, Zoey. But I should probably make sure I can continue to do so. You can come with me, if you want, to make sure I don't get distracted."

"To make sure you actually buy vegetables, you mean," she said.

"Rabbit food," he responded.

"S'pose I'm a rabbit, then?"

"I'm sure your ears will grow in soon."

Zoey sniffed and folded her arms. "I'm coming with you to make sure you buy food I can eat. Unless you _want_ me to stay at Fiona's all the time."

"And miss being scolded about trivial daily tasks? I wouldn't dream of it."

"I wouldn't have to scold you if you actually _did_ them," Zoey pointed out.

Rythian raised his hands in surrender and inclined his head. He moved to her side and offered his arm.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"I'm not taking your arm," she said.

He pouted. "Just this once? It makes me feel so gentlemanly."

"It might help if you were an actual gentleman."

Retracting his arm, he tossed his head haughtily. "Fine. If _that's_ how you're going to be about it."

Zoey snorted and went to collect her purse. The two of them headed out together, chatting amiably about nothing in particular.

The marketplace, when they arrived, was bustling. It was difficult to go a single step without being jostled from one side or another. Zoey carefully reached out and linked her arm with Rythian's. He said nothing, but kept firm hold of her through the flowing sea of humanity.

By the time they got home, laden with bags, it had gotten dark. Rythian had not let go of Zoey's arm, and she hadn't bothered to extract herself from his grasp. It was a comfortable sort of arrangement, having him close enough to ward off the chill of the desert night. She hoped he was feeling sufficiently gentlemanly.

They set all the bags down on the kitchen counter and began unpacking. Rythian took the frozen items and started stowing them away in the icebox, since Zoey had complained of her fingers being cold. She herself started in on the rest of the groceries, setting them in place, her back to Rythian, the two of them still conversing easily.

There was a little note stuffed in the top of one of the bags, folded twice, its edges crimped by nervous fingers. Zoey took it out and unfolded it, her brow furrowed. There were three lines of writing, scrawled in a large and hurried hand.

 

_He's been paying for women who look like you_

_Please, be_ _ CAREFUL!! _

_—A woman who looks like you_

 

Zoey's heart crawled up her throat. Its pounding was painfully loud in her ears. Her body had gone rigid and there was a sickness swirling in her stomach.

"Zoey?" Rythian said, right behind her. His fingertips touched her spine.

She jerked away from him, spinning on her heel, clutching the note to her chest.

"Nothing!" she blurted. His eyes flicked to the note in her hand, and she clutched it closer. His hand was still raised to the height of her shoulders.

She had a sudden, vivid thought of what that hand had been doing, with its long and graceful fingers, and all the blood drained from her face. She had to swallow down nausea.

In her moment of inattention, Rythian's other hand plucked the note from her clutching fingers.

"No—" she said, snatching for it far too late.

He read it, and his whole body went hard. His jaw clenched, his shoulders stiffened, his eyes blazed so bright that they changed the way the shadows fell on his face. Rage poured off of him in tangible waves, heating the air around him, making the sand at his feet crackle. The note burst into flames, and the ash floated down between his fingers. His hand was shaking.

Zoey pressed her back to the kitchen counter and tried to think invisible thoughts.

"Someone," said Rythian, his voice low and dark, "has a very sick sense of humor."

Zoey said nothing. Rythian's eyes snapped to her anyway.

"It's not true," he said.

"Okay," she croaked. Her heart was still lodged in her throat, and its frantic pounding was making her sick. Her eyes were filling with tears.

His head tipped to the side, his eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me," he said slowly.

"No! Yes, I do, I do believe you, Rythian, I swear I do—I just—I just—oh, please just stop, you're scaring me—"

_"Scaring_ you?" Rythian said, and to her horror, he _smiled,_ took a slow and graceful step towards her, hands spread at his sides. "It's only me, Zoey, there's nothing to be scared of."

"Stay back!" she squeaked, halfway climbing onto the counter, desperate to maintain the distance between them. "You stay away from me!"

The smile fell off Rythian's face and shattered on the floor, and the rage came roaring back, distorting the air around him with its heat. He sucked in a breath that sounded like the ignition of a fireball. Zoey screamed and threw her hands up to defend against the inevitable—

"Don't be afraid of me, Zoey," he said quietly.

And no sooner had he said it than the panic began to dissipate. Her heart slid back to its rightful place in her chest, its beat slow and restful. The swirling sickness in her stomach calmed. All the coiled tension in her back dissolved. She lowered her hands, puzzled and breathless.

"I . . . I'm not," she observed. "I'm really . . . not." She looked up at him, a smile tugging at her lips.

Rythian was staring at her in abject horror. The rage had evaporated, and he looked small, frail. Alarmed, Zoey stretched out a hand to him, on the verge of asking what was wrong. He shrank back from her, shaking his head.

"Rythian?" she asked. Something was clamoring in the back of her head. Her heartbeat was kicking up its pace again.

Without a word, Rythian turned and fled from the tent.

"Rythian!" Zoey cried. She dashed after him, but even in the time it took her to get out of the tent, he had gained an insurmountable head start. She stopped just outside the tent and let her arms drop to her sides, sighing. Her head started to ache, and the sickness in her stomach was returning.

She went back inside, curled up in a corner, and cried for an hour. She had no idea why.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Strife rapped his knuckles on Parvis's door and straightened his shirt collar. It felt strange, being there in the daytime, but he thought it was best to make this visit in as distinct a context as possible.

Parvis opened the door and froze. Shock and dread vied for position on his face and were eventually quashed by suspicion.

"Hi," Parvis said slowly, looking Strife up and down.

"Uh, yeah, hey," said Strife. He fidgeted and adjusted his sunglasses on his head. "So, um, I uh . . . well, Parvis, I am here to . . . apologize."

Parvis stared at him. Strife cleared his throat and went on.

"It's uh . . . it's come to my attention that I've, kind of, been a—well, I've been kind of—in regards to, uh, you, I've been. . . ."

"A complete bastard?" Parvis suggested.

Strife clenched his jaw on the sharp retort that rose up. "I was going to say _inconsiderate,"_ he said, his voice clipped. "But, okay, sure. A complete bastard. And . . . I wanted to say that . . . I'm, y'know, sorry."

"You," Parvis said.

"Yeah."

"Are _sorry."_

"Yeah, Parvis, that's what I said. Look, maybe I should just go—"

"Show me your hands," Parvis said, his voice low, his eyes narrowed.

Strife's heart fluttered in panic.

"What?" he said. "Why?"

"Just," said Parvis, "show me them."

"If _this_ is how my apologies are gonna go over, I think I'll go back to not making them," Strife said, turning to go. "But uh, y'know, thanks for nothing anyway."

Quick as lightning, Parvis grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him into the house. In a whirl, he kicked the door shut and slammed Strife against it.

_"What have you done?"_ he growled, inches from Strife's face.

"Let go," Strife said, breathless with panic. Parvis shoved him into the door, pressing his shoulder-blades back into the wood.

"What have you _done?"_ he insisted. His eyes were fever-bright.

"Parvis," Strife gasped. His hand started plucking at Parvis's shirt of its own accord, and even the sedation of the blood magic couldn't keep the fear from fizzing in his blood. It had been nearly a day since he'd last taken the knife to himself, and he was feeling the loss already.

Parvis seized the plucking hand and yanked it up, glaring at Strife's fingertips as though they had personally betrayed him. Strife shut his eyes and focused on breathing.

He felt the moment when Parvis saw the little wound on his fingertip—the tightening of his hand, the sharp intake of breath, the stiffening of his whole body.

"Strife," he said, "what have you done?"

"Please stop touching me," he whispered. He felt like he was going to be sick, and his skin burned everywhere that Parvis touched.

Parvis drew a long, deep breath, and then stepped back, taking his hands off of Strife. Strife sagged back against the door and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to get his breath back.

"Strife," Parvis repeated.

"Nothing else works," Strife admitted, his voice a low and hollow monotone.

"Works for _what?"_ he said.

Strife shrugged. "You know."

There was silence for a moment.

"How long?" Parvis asked.

Another shrug. "A month, give or take."

"Where?"

Strife looked up. "I'm not telling _you,"_ he said.

"Strife," Parvis said, his voice level, his fists clenched at his sides, "it's you or the magic."

His heart stuttered. "What?" he croaked.

"It's you," Parvis repeated, "or the magic. One ends today." He softened, swallowing, his eyebrows pinched together. "Please don't make it you."

Strife stared at him for a long time, counting his heartbeats, fighting to breathe.

"It could be you," he said at last.

Parvis looked away, pained. "Don't," he said. "Strife, please don't."

"Don't _what,_ Parvis? Stand up for myself for once?"

The fear was twisting, mutating in his veins into something crueler, something sleek and predatory. He had no weapons, save for his hands—and yet, there was something grossly appealing about strangling the life out of Parvis, about holding him down and just _squeezing_ until the kicking stopped.

"Don't be like Rythian," Parvis said.

The words were spoken softly, but they came down like a hammer blow. The twisted feeling came undone, unraveling back into fear and powerlessness, leaving Strife feeling sick and horrified. His breath stalled out in his throat and his blood curdled. He put his head in his hands and swallowed down nausea, trying everything he could not to think about how _much_ he'd wanted to murder Parvis.

"Okay," he said, his voice shaking. He took a shuddering breath and straightened up.

The relief on Parvis's face was palpable. "You'll quit?" he asked.

Strife gulped, and answered, "Yeah."

"D'you want any help? I mean, anything, honestly, I'm just—oh, God, Strife, I'm just glad you're not going to make this a fight."

"No," he said. "No, I—I think I got it."

"You're sure?" he pressed, eager. "Because I really don't mind, I can handle it, I'm sure I can."

Something pale and ugly, just under Strife's heart, seized upon him with clammy fingers.

Parvis wanted to _use_ him. Parvis just wanted to get close enough to the knife and the altar to take it all for himself, to snatch the power from under Strife's fingertips and crush him under his thumb. The pale thing clutched at his veins and twisted them up into the predatory thing that had so dearly wanted to murder Parvis.

It still did, but this time Strife had it by the fins, and he was determined to steer it.

He forced a tight smile onto his face.

"I'm sure, Parvis," he said. "Last thing I want is to lead you into temptation, hey?"

Parvis deflated, all the light going out of his eyes.

"Oh," he said in a small voice. "R-right. Of course." He mastered himself and continued, "W-well, if ever you _do_ need help, just—all you've got to do is ask. All right? Anything at all, and I'll do whatever I can. Especially with the whole . . . withdrawal . . . thing. I'm sure anyone would. Y'know. For you."

"Probably," said Strife. "But hey, Parvis—if you ever need something, uh . . . well, you can ask me."

"Really?" Parvis cried. He winced and touched his lips, as though reprimanding them for speaking too loudly. "I mean, thank you. Really, thank you, that . . . that means a lot, Strife."

"Hey, what're friends for, right?" Strife said. Behind his back, he clenched his fists, imagining the feeling of crushing Parvis's trachea under his thumbs.

"Friends," said Parvis, sounding giddy. "Right. Yeah. Friends!"

Strife reached out to the side and opened the door, stepping forward to get out of its way.

"Yeah, so, anyways," he said. "Be seeing you."

"Um," said Parvis. "Look, when . . . when the withdrawal's over. For you, I mean. When you've got past that, you wouldn't mind, um . . . saying all that _friend_ stuff again, would you? Only—I mean, it's not that I don't trust you, it's just—"

"It's just you don't trust me," Strife said, smiling wryly. "No, I get it, Parvis. I wouldn't trust me either."

There was something uncomfortably _knowing_ about the way Parvis looked at him.

"Good," he said. "Because in two weeks, I'm going to come check up on you. And I really, honestly do hope that you'll be shivering miserably and wishing you were dead."

"No promises on that last part," Strife said.

Parvis chuffed out a laugh. "Fair enough," he said.

Strife waved him goodbye and walked home with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Those two words rang in his ears the whole way, their accents morphing slowly into a voice no less familiar, but far less harmless.

The first thing he did when he got home was prick his finger on the glass dagger.

* * *

 

The nightmare came again that night, the same as it had every night for the past week. Rythian stood over him, touching his face, smiling gently. He said nothing, but Strife could see the greedy hunger in his eyes.

Strife sat up, his heart pounding in his chest. He turned to snatch up the disassembler and froze in place.

Someone was sitting on his dresser. Blood red eyes illuminated a face that was settled in a singularly lovestruck expression.

"Don't wake up," Rythian murmured. "Just this once."

Strife's whole body had gone cold. His blood had turned to tar, his stomach filled with ice. His ears were ringing and his skin crawled and his very bones had started to ache with recollected pain.

"You're dead," Strife said, trembling with horror, mumbling through numb lips. "You're _dead."_

"No," said Rythian, his mouth curling in a smile. "I'm just not who you think I am."

_"Then why do you look like him?"_ he hissed.

Rythian shushed him. "Shh, you'll wake up. Please don't wake up."

Something clicked in Strife's head.

"You're not real," he said. "I'm dreaming. You're not real."

Rythian shook his head, smiling. "Oh, _Strife,"_ he sighed. "I did miss you."

Strife squeezed his eyes shut.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up," he whispered to himself.

"Anyone would think you didn't want to talk to me," Rythian remarked.

"Shut up," Strife snapped.

"You can pick up your disassembler, if it helps," he said.

"Shut _up,"_ Strife snarled, glaring at him. Rythian bowed his head and grinned to himself. His teeth gleamed white in the darkness, his smile like a crescent moon. Strife hesitated, taken aback.

"I forgot how pushy you are," Rythian said affectionately. "I missed that."

Information had percolated through Strife's brain, dripping down onto the sizzling fear in his chest.

"If you're not _him,"_ he said slowly, "then who _are_ you?"

"I was wondering when you'd get around to that," Rythian said. "I'm afraid it's not a simple answer, and you probably won't like it."

"You think I like looking at _that?"_ he demanded, gesturing sharply to Rythian's face.

Rythian looked down at himself and pouted.

_"I_ like it," he said. "I spent so long wearing him, it just felt right." He grinned again. "You're brilliant, Strife. Why don't _you_ tell me who I am?"

"Because I don't play fucking _games,"_ he spat.

"Too late," said Rythian. "But if you've made up your mind, trying to talk you out of it is only going to make it worse. I remember _that,_ too. Stubborn. Incredibly stubborn."

"Tell me who you are," Strife growled, "or I'll take your head off."

"I'd almost like to see you try," Rythian said. "But I'm afraid it might do irreparable damage to the wall."

Strife grabbed the disassembler. Rythian held up his hands in surrender.

"I don't have a name," he admitted. "Not yet. I thought I might just use Rythian's, for now. I don't think he'll mind, being dead and all. But what I _am,_ Strife, is an embodiment. You wouldn't listen when I asked your heart, so I've been forced to find a way to speak to your mind."

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?" Strife said.

"The magic, Strife. Blood magic. Sanguimancy. That's me, and I'm it." He smiled and waggled his fingers. "Hello."

Strife scowled. "That's stupid. That doesn't make any sense."

"Does it have to?" Rythian asked. "You _are_ dreaming, after all."

"Even _assuming_ this crazy stuff is true," Strife went on, ignoring him, "what could _you_ possibly want with _me?"_

Rythian considered this, leaning back onto his hands and kicking his feet.

"If I tell you," he said at last, "you'll wake up."

"So?"

_"So?_ So I don't want you to wake up! I missed you, I missed _being_ with you. I missed arguing with you, _God,_ I missed that. Just give me a few more minutes to enjoy your company, hey?"

Strife's eye twitched. His stomach churned. Something about Rythian's phrasing had gotten so far under his skin it was scratching the bone.

"What do you _want?"_ he insisted.

Rythian sighed. "I just want to live again. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of being _lonely,_ Strife. I'm tired of being small and weak and all alone."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"You've already helped, just by being here," he admitted. "But I was so much _more,_ Strife. I was incredible. I just want myself back." He raised his eyes to Strife's. "You can understand that, at least."

"No," Strife lied. "This is insane."

"I helped you get yourself back," Rythian pointed out. "I made you well again. All I'm asking is that you do the same for me."

"What, and end up like Rythian? No thanks. Go away."

"Rythian wanted to die," he said, waving a hand, "so I let him. He wanted to be a monster, so I let him. You don't have to do the same."

"Bullshit," said Strife.

"I've never lied to you," said Rythian.

"I will never, _ever_ trust _you."_

"You don't have to trust me," Rythian said. "You don't even have to keep me around. But if you want me to leave, you'll have to give me somewhere else to go."

Strife frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let Parvis have the knife," he said. "Or anyone, really. But I think Parvis would take it. And I would take him, and you would never have to see me again."

"And what if I just stop doing blood magic?"

Rythian shrugged, looking pained. "Then I can't help you anymore, and things go back to being the way they were. _You_ go back to being the way you were."

"Uh-huh," he said, though the thought left a chill in his blood. "And what if _nobody_ does it? What if everyone just stops feeding you? Do you die?"

"Strife," he said sweetly, "I was torn into the fabric of the universe. I am a force of nature. Things like me don't die. You would have better luck starving out the sea."

"Find somebody else, then," he said.

Rythian spread his hands. "I can't. You have to."

"I am _not_ getting anyone else involved in this—this _bullshit,"_ Strife spat, tightening his grip on the disassembler.

"I thought you might say that," said Rythian. "It's all right. There's always Parvis."

"No," Strife snarled, startled by his own vehemence.

He raised his eyebrows. "So you've changed a little, after all. Well, fine, if that's what you want. But I really can't leave you alone without somewhere else to go."

Strife clenched his jaw and breathed deeply.

"I'll find a way to get rid of you," Strife said.

"You don't have to," Rythian said. "I've already figured it out for you. I just didn't want to tell you, because you'll wake up. I wanted to present you with all the second-best options first. But I get the feeling you don't want to talk to me anymore."

"You're just now getting that?"

He smiled regretfully.

"Strife," he murmured, "I just want Rythian back."

Strife's heart stopped, his whole body went rigid. With a gasp, he sat up in bed, his eyes flying open, heartbeat thundering in his ears. His hands were aching from being clenched on nothing. He grabbed the disassembler and leapt out of bed.

His room was empty. He stood trembling in the center of the floor until he could breathe again.

"No," he said, to no one.

* * *

 

Parvis must have been awake, because he opened the door after only ten seconds of continuous knocking. Strife fell into him, and Parvis embraced him, and Strife buried his face in Parvis's shoulder and dug his fingernails into his back.

"Strife," Parvis said softly; pleading. Strife could hear it now, that quiet note of desperation in his voice that had somehow always eluded him before, maybe just because he didn't want to hear it. A shiver of revulsion swept through him—disgust with himself, with what he was, with what he was doing—and he felt it as a dance of clawed fingertips running up his back. He shoved Parvis back until the two of them cannoned into the wall, and he clutched at Parvis's shirt and kissed him.

He'd said _anything,_ after all.

Parvis kissed back, but it was lackluster, _tired,_ as though he had better things to be doing, as though he would rather be asleep.

Something hot and sickly white ignited in Strife's chest and burned like napalm. It wasn't _fair,_ it wasn't right. Parvis was supposed to _enjoy_ this, he was supposed to like it and want it and that was why it was all right for Strife to do it at all—because even if Strife hated it, at least Parvis didn't, at least one of them could drown in ecstasy for a few hours. He was seized with a sudden and violent compulsion to smash open Parvis's head, to scrawl heavy-handed upon his brain the words: _LOVE ME._

And Parvis melted against him, sighing, clutching his shoulders, suddenly kissing like he meant it.

Strife went cold, pulling back from Parvis in horror. Parvis tugged on him and whimpered. His eyes were closed, his face drawn.

"Don't stop," he begged. "Please, no, you had it, you _had_ it, don't stop. . . ."

"Parvis?" Strife croaked. He was shaking harder than ever.

Parvis bowed his head and, to Strife's astonishment, started crying. Strife backed away slowly, disentangling himself from Parvis's clutching hands.

"You _had_ it," Parvis repeated hoarsely, sinking to the floor.

"Had . . . had _what?"_ he said.

Parvis only shook his head and curled his knees up to his chest.

"Had _what?"_ Strife demanded, his voice shaking. "God dammit, Parvis, _answer me!"_

Sniffling, his eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears, Parvis raised a trembling hand and tapped his temple with two fingers.

Strife's heart plunged into his boots, gouging a hole through the core of him. All the napalm in his chest spattered down into his stomach, setting it to boiling.

"No," he said, his lips gone numb. _"No."_

"Yes," Parvis whispered.

"No," Strife repeated, desperation rising. "That is _not_ what happened. It's _not."_

"You think I wouldn't know?" he asked, his voice small and broken.

_"Shut up!"_ he cried, his voice breaking. "I wouldn't—I _wouldn't,_ I can't—"

"You did."

The urge came again, boiling up into his head, to crack Parvis open and rearrange his insides, to _make_ him keep his mouth shut, to sew his lips together from the inside. There was a sharp, stabbing pain just above Strife's eyebrow.

Parvis rocked back, hitting his head on the wall. He flinched, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

"Again," he said. "You've just done it again."

"Then why aren't you _shutting up?"_ Strife cried. Tears were pricking his eyes, and something fluid was making its way down through his sinuses.

"It doesn't work like that," Parvis said.

"We're not talking about this. I'm not _talking_ about this, this isn't _happening."_

"Yes, it is," said Parvis.

"Then make it stop!" he begged. The tears spilled over and tracked down his face. His nose was already running, dribbling warm, thick snot down to his lips.

Parvis finally opened his eyes, and he was wearing that pitying expression that Strife had come to know and hate. Gingerly, he got to his feet.

"Your nose is bleeding," he said quietly.

Strife wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Sure enough, it came back red. He could feel his lip quivering, sobs building in his chest.

"I don't want this," he whimpered. "I don't _want_ this."

"Strife," Parvis said. "Let me help you."

Strife's whole body snapped to attention, a bowstring suddenly drawn taut.

"Like you _helped_ Rythian?" he demanded.

His jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath.

"If that's what you want," he said.

"I want it to _stop,"_ Strife said, trembling with his internal tensions. "I want it to stop, I just want to be—I just want to be _normal_ again, I just want it to _stop. . . ."_

Parvis's voice was full of pain as he said, "Then stop, Strife."

"You don't understand," he moaned, shaking his head, backing away.

"I do," said Parvis.

"You don't _understand!"_ Strife repeated. "It never goes away, it never _stops,_ it's never _over,_ I've _never_ stopped being scared—"

"I know," said Parvis.

"It's never _enough!_ It's never good enough, it's never—it's never—"

"It's never enough to keep you safe," Parvis completed.

Strife snapped, coming unwound all at once. His knees went out and he dropped to the floor, sobbing helplessly, hunched and trembling and scarcely able to breathe.

After a moment, Parvis sat down in front of him, saying nothing, and extended a hand.

Strife grabbed it and squeezed as hard as he could.

"Make it stop," he begged, choking on his sobs. "Make it stop."

And Parvis said, simply: "I can't."

 


	10. Chapter 10

Fiona scowled at the air as though trying to get it to confess.

"D'you think it's true?" she asked eventually.

"Um," said Zoey. "I mean, Rythian said it wasn't."

She shook her head. "I'm asking if _you_ think it's true."

Zoey swallowed, and fidgeted, and bit her lip and picked at her fingernails.

"Well," she said, "I just . . . I don't really understand why someone would—would _lie_ about something like that. I mean, I understand why _Rythian_ would lie about it, just . . . not, like, a stranger." She took a deep breath and tried not to think about it. "So . . . yeah, I guess I think it's probably true."

Fiona sighed through her nose and sat back, crossing her arms.

"So," she said. "What d'you want to do about it?"

"Oh, um, I dunno, really. Does there—I mean, have we _got_ to do anything? About it?"

Fiona looked at her askance.

"Zo, if I were you, I'd have ripped his balls off by now," she said. "I have no idea how you can be so _calm_ about all of this. I'd be terrified. Actually, I'd probably be fifty miles down the coast, being terrified somewhere where he wouldn't think to come looking for me, on account of I'd ripped his balls off."

Zoey made a distressed noise and covered her mouth. "No," she said, "that's _horrible."_

"All right, it might be a _bit_ overkill," Fiona admitted. "But I think we ought to do _something._ Even if it's just, y'know, leaving."

"I can't _leave_ him," Zoey objected. "No, absolutely no. It'd be so so so much worse if I left. It really would. Every time I leave he starts building horrible awful kill-everyone-at-once sort of things."

Fiona's eyes got very wide. She set her jaw.

"I could look into someplace with padded walls and cozy jackets," she said darkly.

"That sounds nice," Zoey said.

"It's . . . no, Zo, I meant he should be locked up. Danger to himself and others, sort of thing. Professional help."

"Oh," said Zoey. "I . . . don't really think he'd go for it. Besides, we—we can't be _sure_ it's true, what the note thingy said. So, y'know, maybe it's really not an issue and we can just ignore it and it'll go away and everything will be fine! Yeah, that sounds better. Let's do that."

Fiona took a deep breath and sighed it out again. Her hands were tight on her own biceps, and her jaw muscles flickered under the skin.

"Zoey," she said. "Will you, please, for just a second or two, think about the worst that could happen?"

"Ooh, no, I really . . . _really_ don't like doing that, it's always really bad—"

"Yeah, it is. Especially with this whole mess. I know you'd rather not do anything, I know you'd rather pretend nothing was wrong, but something _is_ wrong, Zo, and you could get really hurt. So can we please, _please_ not ignore this? Can we _please_ not let this get any worse?"

Zoey sniffed, and fidgeted, and shrugged.

"I don't think I can really do anything unless I'm, like, sure," she said. "'Cause, I dunno, like, from one angle I've got to wonder why some stranger would—would do, y'know, what they did, but also, I mean, it's _Rythian."_

"I don't really see how that contradicts."

She made another distressed noise and waved her hands. "It's just—I've known him for _ages,_ and he's always been sort of odd, y'know, but not like in a scary way—well, sometimes in a scary way, but not the kind of scary way you're talking about—and I sort of, like, knew? About the whole thing with him and, y'know, liking me lots, but—I mean, like, yeah, sometimes I do get scared he'll . . . I guess, hurt me. Because he breaks things, when he thinks I'm not looking, and it's like, he gets all quiet and horrible and I worry he'll hurt me, but like, not _that_ kind of hurt. He wouldn't, like, do . . . that. To me. Honestly, I mean, we slept in the same bed for like two months and it was never weird. "

"Yeah, well, I'd say it's pretty obvious things're different now," Fiona replied. She sighed. "Look, I don't want to push you to do anything, but honestly, Zo, it scares me. Even if you're not scared, I'm scared _for_ you. So could we do something—anything—to make this less scary? Just, y'know, so I'm not worried about you all the time. At _least_ can we do that?"

"Well . . . yeah, all right, I guess. Um." She licked her lips and fiddled with one of the struts on her mechanical arm.

"What?" Fiona asked.

"It's just—I mean, you say that about me not being scared, but . . . oh, _I_ dunno, it's all really weird and sort of silly and I probably shouldn't even mention it."

"I'm listening," she said. "If you want to mention it anyway."

"Like, okay, it's like, I was _super_ scared. 'Cause he was—honestly, he was angrier than I've ever seen him, and like, I've seen him stuck in a forcefield with Lalna sort of, like, taunting him, and he was angrier than that—and so I was, like, really scared. But, then I just sort of . . . wasn't? Anymore? He was all, _Urr, don't be scared of me, Zoey,_ and then I just, like, wasn't! I dunno, it's probably nothing, it just sort of made me feel weird, especially since he, like, ran away afterwards." She shrugged. "I dunno, I just thought maybe it'd make you feel better if you knew I used to be scared? And I'm actually sort of scared again now, not as bad, but like . . . I dunno. I probably don't make any sense. Sorry."

Fiona looked at her for so long that heat rose in prickling waves under her skin.

"Zoey," she said quietly, "that's _horrifying._ That's—I don't even _know_ what that is. He's done something to you. He's _done_ something to you."

"N-no," she said, "no, that doesn't sound right. What would he even have actually, like, done? To me?" She considered the possibilities briefly. "Y'know, I—I changed my mind, I don't really want to talk about this anymore."

Again, Fiona took a long time to reply.

"Would you mind staying here tonight?" she asked. "I think I would really like you to stay the night with me, tonight. Would you mind doing that?"

"Um, I mean, I always like staying over with you," Zoey said. "Just . . . um, I've got to ask, um, why?"

"Why? _Why?"_ Fiona spluttered, her voice cracking. She held up her hands, shut her eyes, and breathed deeply. When she spoke again, her voice was level.

"Because," she said, "I'm very worried about you, and it would make me a lot less worried if I could be close to you."

"Oh," said Zoey. "All right, fair enough. Um. I'm sorry I've worried you."

"It's really, absolutely fine," Fiona said. "I'm glad you did."

"Really?"

"Really. I'd much rather worry about you, even if there's nothing to worry about. I like that a lot better than not knowing anything's wrong."

"I guess that makes sense. Okay, um, but I don't also have to be worried about me, right? 'Cause I don't really want to be worried right now. I feel like if I start being worried I'll get scared all over again and then I won't be able to do anything because I'll be too scared and I really don't want to do that because last time I did that I ran away and lived with mushrooms for like three months and it wasn't much fun."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Fiona assured her.

Zoey sighed, sagging. "Okay, good. Um. Is it okay if we do something I _do_ want to do? 'Cause, um, y'know, if this is going to be a thing, I sort of want to know what the thing actually is."

Fiona raised an eyebrow and waited. Zoey cleared her throat.

"Just, um, well, the note _did_ say it was from a woman who looks like me. And there can't be _too_ many of them round here, right? So . . . maybe we could find her? And—and just _ask_ her? If it's true?"

Solemnly, Fiona nodded. "If that's what you want, Zo."

"Yeah. I think it is. Um. You should probably come with me. And do all the talking. And be really tall and strong so I can hide behind you because I wouldn't know what to say and it'd be super awkward and yeah."

Fiona cracked a smile. "As if I'll know what to say. I don't _actually_ have much experience talking to prostitutes."

Zoey buried her face in her hands, embarrassed beyond all reason.

"It'll really help if you don't call them that," she mumbled.

"Oh, Zoey," Fiona sighed. "I'll try."

* * *

 

Zoey saw the hair first—a flagrant shock of red amidst a sea of brown and tan. The woman underneath was leaned up against the corner of a building, arms folded, expression dull. The light of a nearby streetlamp cast sharp, shivering shadows on her angular face. Zoey tugged on Fiona's sleeve and pointed.

"Think so?" Fiona asked.

"Probably?" Zoey guessed. "Um. It can't hurt to try! Well, no, actually it can, because she might not be a—a—the person we're looking for, um, and that'd be super- _duper_ awkward, um, and I really wish I hadn't started talking about this now, okay."

Fiona took her hand and squeezed it. "I'll do all the talking. Don't worry. I've got an idea."

"You do? Oh, good. Um. What is it?"

"I thought I might just ask her if she knows Rythian."

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, that'll probably be best. Okay! Let's go."

They made their way through the thin crowd that still lingered in the market, stopping a few feet in front of the woman. Fiona nodded to her, and Zoey hid behind Fiona. The woman looked them both up and down with a bored expression.

"What?" she said.

"Um, hi," said Fiona. "Look, this is already awkward, but we're on a bit of a mission. D'you know a man named Rythian?"

The woman considered this, and then her full lips pulled into a crooked smile.

"Sometimes twice a week," she answered sardonically. Her eyes drifted to Zoey. "You must be the real Zoey."

Zoey's skin went hot, and her insides went cold. She clutched Fiona's arm, feeling as though her legs might send her fleeing at any moment.

"Um?" she squeaked.

Next to her, Fiona had gone steely. She towered above Zoey, like a goddess bent on smashing down the sky.

The woman sighed. "Look. You girls wanna go inside somewhere and talk about this? I'm freezing my tits off out here."

Zoey tugged on Fiona's arm. "Can we leave?" she begged. "Can we just leave? Please? I don't want to do this, I really don't want to do this."

"Zoey," Fiona said slowly. "I would like to buy this woman—" she turned back to the woman. "Sorry, what was your name?"

"Elyse," she answered.

"I would like to buy Elyse a hot meal," Fiona finished. Her voice was level as a razor.

"Oh, um, okay, but—but have we got to talk about, um. . . . Because I really don't want to talk about, um. Y'know."

"I know, Zoey," Fiona said. "But I think we probably should anyway."

Elyse shrugged a shoulder. "Hell, I never turn down free food. But I don't talk shop for free. You girls got cash on you?"

"Some," said Fiona.

"Um?" said Zoey, looking up at her.

"I thought this might happen," she explained.

"I'm craving curry like a motherfucker," Elyse said, shoving herself off the wall. "C'mon, I know a place. Your treat."

They walked several blocks, following Elyse as she stalked down the streets. She did not walk like a woman who was selling something; she looked rather like she was on her way to a murder. No one accosted her, and Zoey was, somehow, relieved.

The restaurant was a little hole-in-the-wall sort of place, the air thick with the smell of spices and tobacco smoke. Elyse got them a table and traded banter with the wait staff until the food arrived, when she devoured a huge plate of curried chicken without so much as coming up for air. Fiona picked at her food, and Zoey simply pushed her rice around on her plate, completely devoid of appetite.

When Elyse had finished, she sat back and wiped her mouth on her napkin, leaving bright red lipstick stains on the cloth.

"Ten gold," she said, "I'll tell you everything."

"Um," Zoey said. "Is there, like, is there a—a discount for, like, leaving out the really awful horrible parts? Or, um, actually, can I pay you to _not_ talk about this? With me? Here?"

Elyse cracked another crooked smile.

"Sure," she said. "I'll take your money for nothing."

"Zoey," Fiona admonished softly. Zoey sighed and hung her head, and Fiona dug in her purse and handed over ten gold coins. They vanished into Elyse's hands.

"First time I met Rythian," she said, "was about three weeks ago. Weird guy. Richer than God, though, which makes up for a lot of shit. He turns up, doesn't say a single word, hands over a whole diamond. Money like that, I'd probably've let him slap me around a little if he'd asked to. _But,_ I asked him what he wanted, poor little shit, all he says is _Tonight your name is Zoey._ So my name's Zoey. And _then,_ he hands over _another_ diamond and says, _Don't talk._ So I don't talk. And then it's two diamonds once or twice a week, and I am getting _incredibly_ rich off this poor bastard."

Zoey put her head in her hands. She was shaking, and felt sick. Fiona put a hand on her back and Zoey stiffened. The hand was removed.

"Did you write the note?" Fiona asked.

"Note?" said Elyse.

"Oh. Um. Zoey . . . sort of got an anonymous tip."

"Bet it was Chessie. She's a sweetheart, but she never keeps her nose in her own business. I can tell you how to find her, if you want, but this time of night, she'll probably be occupied." She paused, musing. "Y'know, this time of week, probably with Rythian."

"I can't do this," Zoey moaned, shaking her head. Her lungs weren't working right.

"So there's . . . more than one," Fiona said. "Of you. Who he. . . ."

"Fucks on a regular basis? Yeah, there's three of us," Elyse answered. "I think it was just me at first. Chessie says he only turned up on her corner two weeks ago, and Madison's only been seeing him for a little over a week. He probably thinks we don't know about each other. We _all_ know about each other. Especially after he had Mads dye her hair, now _that_ was fucked up. That's probably what spooked Chessie into sending her little anonymous message. To be fair, though, he's always been creepy. Just also really, _disgustingly_ rich."

"Fi, I can't _do_ this," Zoey whimpered. She was pulling on her own hair, looking for solace in the pain and finding none. Tears were pricking at her eyes. She felt like her whole body was going to explode into a million pieces at any second.

"Okay," Fiona said gently. "Okay, we'll stop. Um. Thanks, Elyse."

"Hey, you get what you pay for," Elyse said. "You girls mind if I skip out? Night's still young, and I have bills to pay."

"Sure," said Fiona.

"Uh-huh." Elyse slid out of the booth and stretched. "You feel like you want to go looking for Chessie, she usually hits the market first thing in the morning for breakfast. The guy who does the pastries gives her half off 'cause she's cute, so you'll probably find her there."

"Thanks," Fiona said again.

"Yep. Oh, and I'd appreciate it if you don't kill the creep. I get it's tempting, but he's buying me a house on the beach and an early retirement. One night at a time."

Fiona said nothing. Zoey sniffled and clenched her jaw, trying to keep her stomach from crawling out her throat. Elyse sighed.

"What a fucking mess," she remarked, and strode out of the restaurant.

"Zoey," Fiona began softly.

"Don't talk to me," she said, her voice thick.

"I'm sorry," she said anyway.

"I want to go home."

"Okay. Let's go home."

Fiona helped her out of the booth, and put an arm around her shoulders, and walked her back to the little house in the middle of town. She settled Zoey in the bedroom, kissed her on the forehead, and shuffled off to sleep on the sofa.

Zoey lay awake until morning, shivering and crying and trying not to throw up.

* * *

 

Once again, the hair was the first thing she saw. She wondered unhappily if that was how Rythian had found these women, gravitating towards the bright red hair like a moth towards a flame.

Zoey sidled onto the stool behind the woman—she was petite, with huge eyes and dark skin and large hands, chatting with the man inside the market stall in a piping little voice—and coughed. She was alone this morning, having left Fiona snoring on the sofa.

The woman looked around, and put a hand over her mouth.

"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, oh wow. Oh, it's _you._ You're her, you're really _her."_

Zoey swallowed. Her sinuses were tingling with tears already.

"Um," she said. "Hi. Um, Chessie? I think? I—I got your note."

Chessie nodded. Her other hand joined the first over her mouth, and then she reached out to Zoey, stopping just short of touching her arm.

"Oh, I hope I didn't get you in any trouble. I really hope I didn't. I just—oh, but, I was so worried. I haven't gotten you in any trouble?"

"Not . . . really," said Zoey. "No. Not really. Um. But . . . I just, I've got to ask: _why?_ Why would you—why did you—with the note, and all, I just—" A lump rose in her throat, and she couldn't finish her question.

Chessie looked at her with a deeply pitying expression. She bowed her head and bit her lip.

"It's not that I thought anything bad would happen," she said. "Rythian isn't _bad,_ he's just—he's just very, very lonely. And I never thought there was any problem, but—well, there's only one reason men come to women like me, and it's because they want to convince themselves that they're wanted. And sometimes they just want to be wanted in general, but sometimes they want to be wanted _by someone,_ someone in particular, and that can get . . . worrying. Because maybe they convince themselves a little too well. And, really, he's been nothing but sweet, and almost—almost loving. It's really a nice change from the usual. But then I—I saw you with him, and I thought, that must be her, that must be the real Zoey, and I just got so scared for you, because with Mads and everything, and oh, I don't know, it was silly and it really could've gotten someone hurt and I'm just glad you're okay."

Zoey sat and worked to swallow down the lump in her throat far enough to speak past it.

"'M not okay," she croaked. Tears swelled in her eyes and she wiped them away angrily.

"Oh," Chessie said, very quietly. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

She shook her head, trying to pull herself together and only halfway succeeding.

"What . . . happened with Mads?" she managed to ask.

Chessie sighed, as though it was a difficult question.

"Well, Mads . . . Mads sounds like you. In the voice. She had this beautiful long blonde hair, everybody loved it, but I guess—I guess everything's got a price, right? She sort of turned up one day with half of it cut off and the rest just dyed this bright, _bright_ red, and she didn't mention why she'd done it but we all knew, of course, because _everyone_ knows, but—oh, I don't know. Something about it just really got under my skin. I'm sure it's nothing, really. I'm sure he'd never hurt anyone."

Zoey hunched in on herself, wrapping her arms around her middle, her face pulled into an ugly expression of discomfort. Her nose was running, even though she was managing to hold back the tears. Chessie laid her fingertips on Zoey's arm.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," she said.

"I hate him," she said thickly. "I hate him, I _hate_ him, I _hate him!"_

Gingerly, Chessie withdrew her hand and curled it against her own chest.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"He _lied_ to me," Zoey said. "He just—just _lied_ to me! To _me!"_

"Oh, dear," said Chessie, a nervous squeak in her voice. "Oh no. Oh no, I've done it again. I'm so sorry, I'm always ruining things, I just thought—I just thought you should know—"

"It's not your fault!" she cried, distressed. "It's all _his_ stupid fault! This is all his stupid fault, everything is his stupid lying _fault!"_

Zoey shot to her feet, vision blurred with tears, fists balled at her sides. Chessie recoiled, biting her lip.

"Um," she said, "oh, um, just . . . please be careful. A-and please, _please_ please don't . . . tell him it was me. N-not that I think he'd—just please don't. Please?"

Zoey was only breathing in short, sharp gasps, but she nodded, lips pinched together.

"Okay," said Chessie. "Okay. Zoey? I'm really, really sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," she managed to choke out. She turned on her heel and stalked off into the gathering crowd, refusing to wipe the tears from her face, bumping shoulders with what seemed like half the town's populace. She beelined for the walled complex on the edge of town, letting her anger and hurt bury the fear underneath.

She threw open the flap to the magic tent and stood seething in the doorway. Rythian leapt up from where he knelt on the floor, carving arcane patterns into the floor. He went pale when he saw her face.

"Zoey—" he began.

"You _lied_ to me," she croaked.

His eyes darted, and he licked his lips. Slowly, he raised his hands. "I don't know what you're—"

"You _lied_ to me!" she cried. She stormed over and shoved him in the chest, hard. "You _lied_ to _me!_ I trusted you! And you—you—you've been doing terrible things and I don't know _where_ you've been getting all the diamonds and you have no right to tell _anybody_ what to do with their hair and _especially_ not so they'll look like _me_ and _you lied to me!"_

Rythian's face twisted up with pain; he bowed his head, shrank down into himself, squirming with guilt—and then he _changed._

His face went placid, like a lake on a still day. He straightened his shoulders and relaxed onto his skeleton.

"Of course I lied to you, Zoey," he said. "You were already upset, and clearly afraid. I didn't want to scare you any more than I already had. I didn't want to make things worse. You can hardly blame me for that, can you?"

Zoey stared at him.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I _can,_ and I _do,_ and now I'm really wondering what's _wrong_ with you—"

"Zoey," he said, in a low and placid voice. "There is really no reason to be upset."

Something clicked in Zoey's chest, like a gear catching. All the tension wound out of her shoulders and back, and her lungs grew by two sizes. She blinked the tears from her eyes, breathing deeply.

"I—I sort of . . . feel like there is," she mentioned.

Rythian touched her elbow and smiled down at her.

"Maybe a _little_ upset," he allowed. "I'm sorry that I lied to you, Zoey. It won't happen again. I hope you can understand why I felt it was necessary."

"Yeah," said Zoey. It might have been her imagination, but she fancied that his eyes had gotten redder since last she'd seen him. "Yeah, I mean, I forgive you. It's all right."

His smile split open into a grin. "Thank you, Zoey. That means a lot."

"Uh-huh. But, um, just—y'know, with the whole, um, thing, right? Could you . . . d'you think maybe you could stop?"

Rythian tipped his head to the side and studied her face.

"Yes," he said. "I think I could do that for you, Zoey."

Sagging with relief, Zoey sighed, a smile tugging at her mouth.

"Oh, good!" she said. "I'm glad we've got that sorted out. Fiona was absolutely livid."

Something about Rythian's smile was unnatural, disconcerting.

"Unfortunate," he said. "Maybe you should explain the situation to her. Before she does anything drastic. I would hate for anything drastic to happen."

"Yeah," Zoey said, nodding absently. "Yeah, I think I should probably do that. Okay! I'm glad we talked about this. I really am. It was all horrible and messy and awful before. I'm glad we fixed it."

"Fixed it," Rythian repeated, musing. "Yes. Hah. It's fixed."

"I'm going to go tell Fiona," Zoey said. "I'll be back in a bit, okay? And maybe you can, like, help me with the power source thing? I know we haven't worked on it in ages, but I sort of still want to do it."

Rythian blinked, and again, something changed. He swallowed, and his eyes flicked to the altar, and he took his hand off of Zoey's elbow and folded his arms.

"Yes," he said, a tremor in his voice. "Yes, we—we could do that. I think that . . . would be for the best."

"Um," said Zoey, a queasy feeling stirring in her stomach. "Okay. Yeah. So, um, I'll just—I'll just go, okay?"

Rythian nodded. She saw a shiver race through him, a flicker of movement that made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. He was staring at the altar, idly petting his own arms.

"Right," said Zoey, and hurried out, her spine tingling the whole way.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Strife poked his head in the back door of the noodle bar and knocked on the wall. Nano looked up, tossing her hair out of her face.

"Hey, uh," he said, and cocked a thumb over his shoulder, "your roof's done."

"Already?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve and dropped the dish she was washing into the sink. She washed her arms up to the elbows and then dried them on a nearby towel. "I'd better come see, then."

"It doesn't have to be right now," he said hurriedly. "If you're in the middle of something, or . . . whatever."

"Please," she said, sauntering to the door. "I've been slaving over that sink all afternoon, I'll take any excuse to go outside."

"I still haven't taken out the old roof," Strife mentioned, as the two of them walked out of the restaurant for a better vantage point. "So that still needs to get done, but otherwise, it's finished."

"Sounds like you left me the fun bit," she said. "Do I get to take a sledgehammer to it, or what?"

"Uh, well, you could," he allowed. "It'd take a while and probably be pretty messy, but uh, yeah, I guess you could, if you want."

She rubbed her hands together and grinned. "Oh, _good._ I haven't gotten to destroy anything in months."

They stopped about fifty feet out the back door and turned. Nano folded her arms and sniffed.

"Well," she said, "it doesn't look like a chode. I'm not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed."

"Hey," Strife said, bristling, _"that,_ right there, that is _craftsmanship._ I even tiled it for you, which believe you me, it is _not_ easy to get the architect to do."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Would you like me to be impressed?" she inquired.

"I—well—yes, actually, that's exactly what I want."

Nano adopted an expression of delight and cried, "Oh, _wow,_ Strife! It's amazing! Bless your giant brain!" She sobered and asked, "Good enough?"

"You don't have to be a jerk about it," he pouted, folding his arms and turning away.

"It's lovely, Strife," she said sincerely. "Thank you very much."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well. You're uh, you're welcome. So." He coughed politely. "There's that."

"I guess this means you won't be around as much anymore," Nano said.

"Well," said Strife, rocking back on his heels, "I guess not. I do have actual work to do. Actually."

"Right, yeah, all that science in your basement," Nano said.

"Yeah, that," said Strife, although it was not at all what he'd been thinking of.

"I . . . don't suppose you could find time in your busy schedule to help out with the stairs?" she inquired. "Only they _are_ a bit of a mess still."

"Stairs?" he asked. "Ooh, y'know, I dunno, I'd have to do some serious modifications to the architect, there's materials to consider, free lunches. . . ."

"I feel like we could work something out," Nano said carefully. "You would, of course, have to take an awful lot of time out of your science. I'd understand if you didn't want to."

"It's tough, being the only scientist in town," he allowed. "Probably be easier if I had an uh . . . an assistant, hey?"

Nano looked over at him, eyes wide, lips parted with just a hint of a smile.

"Oh?" she said. "Pity you haven't got one. A shame, really, there's no one about who's got any experience being a scientist's assistant."

"Tragic," he agreed. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was grinning. He fought down a smile of his own and looked back at the noodle bar.

"I suppose," Nano said, "that if no one else were available, I might be able to fill the spot."

"Yeah? Don't you have a noodle bar to run?"

"I could find time. You might have to pay me, though."

"Pay? _Pay?_ Excuse me, I'm a businessman, I never _pay_ for anything, when I can avoid it."

"Fine," she said. "Then you can be a noodle-maker's apprentice, and I'll be a scientist's apprentice, and maybe _one_ of us will manage to be direct about something eventually."

Strife cracked up and raised a hand to his mouth, laughing into his knuckles.

"Yeah, okay," he said. "But I'm _not_ doing dishes."

"All right," said Nano, "but _I'm_ not sitting through any boring lectures about circuitry or computing."

Strife made a face. "That's like, half of science," he said.

"And washing dishes is half of running a noodle bar," she responded, "so it's only fair."

He sighed and shook his head. "Fine, fine, we'll work it out."

Nano grinned. "Fantastic. Care for one last free dinner?"

"I _guess_ I could allow it," he sighed.

The two of them returned to the building, and Strife sat at the bar while she made him dinner. They talked while she cooked, and while he ate, and for an hour and a half afterwards, until the bar had emptied and the sun had set.

Strife looked over his shoulder out the window and sighed.

"Guess I'd better be getting home," he said. "I have this apprenticeship starting tomorrow, I think I'll have to be up pretty early."

"Yeah?" said Nano, a smile playing over her lips. She leaned her elbows on the counter and propped her chin on her hands. "Funny thing. I've got something similar."

"Coincidences, huh?" he said.

"It's odd," she agreed. "I hope you'll let me walk you home before our apprenticeships inevitably drag us apart."

He snorted. "If it makes you feel better, fine."

Nano came out from behind the bar and offered him her hand. He got up out of his stool and took it, twining his fingers with hers.

 _"God,"_ she scoffed, rolling her eyes as they headed out. "Your hands are so big. You're going to stretch my poor little fingers out."

"My hands are perfectly normal-sized, thanks," he said. "Yours are just tiny."

She drummed her fingers on the back of his hand. "All the better to fiddle with complex circuitry, my dear," she said loftily. "I don't see how you manage, with those huge sausages stuck to the end of your hands."

"I'm astounded you haven't boiled your hands yet, with those noodles dangling out of them," he countered.

"If you eat my hands, I shall be _very_ displeased," she told him.

"If you eat mine, I'll come back with robot fingers, and _then_ you'll be sorry."

She laughed. "I suppose I would be. They'd be so cold. I'd hate for you to have cold fingers."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I'd tell you, but you'd blush. I do hate to make you blush."

"Uh-huh, _sure_ you do," said Strife, blushing.

They arrived on his doorstep and stopped, turning to one another. He held out his other hand to Nano and she took it.

"Well," he said.

"Yeah," she answered, and fidgeted. To his surprise, her cheeks pinkened. "Um. Okay, so . . . so this sounds really strange when I say it out loud, not that I've been practicing, but I thought it was better I say it than not, so. . . ."

He raised his eyebrows and waited.

"Is it . . . Strife, is it all right if I—if I kiss you?" she asked.

His heart skipped a beat and then turned a somersault. He blinked, taken aback.

"Uh," he said, his voice squeaking. "Y-yeah, I mean . . . yeah, that'd be . . . all right. Yeah."

She smiled at him, and then stood up on the very tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his. His whole body flooded with warmth and his head filled up with air. He forgot to breathe until she pulled away, and only caught a whiff of the smell of her. It was still enough to make his heart race.

Nano settled back onto her heels and squeezed his hands. She smiled again, still blushing.

"Good night, Strife," she said softly.

"Yeah," he agreed.

Nano grinned, and squeezed his hands one last time, and hurried off into the night.

He didn't stop smiling until he fell asleep.

* * *

 

Rythian was touching his face when he awoke, deep in the darkness of a moonless night. He was sitting on the edge of Strife's bed, and Strife found himself paralyzed.

"How long are you going to let this go on?" Rythian asked, stroking his cheek with the back of his knuckles.

Strife wheezed, struggling to breathe. His hands had clenched on his sheets.

"It's less than a week until the withdrawal starts," Rythian continued. "You don't have to go through it. You don't have to go back to the way you were. I won't be able to help you afterwards, Strife. I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself."

He whimpered, panic tearing through his chest like razor wire. Rythian sighed and looked away.

"It's the face, isn't it," he said despondently. "I know you said you didn't like it, but nothing else really fits. But fine, I'll try. For you, Strife."

There was a moment when his eyes blurred, as though suddenly exposed to intense pressure, and all the air stalled out in his lungs; and then Rythian was gone, and Parvis was sitting in his place.

Parvis but _not_ Parvis—Parvis young and bright and with his hair shorter, Parvis with straight white teeth and none of the constellation scars of bite-marks on his neck, Parvis _smiling._

"Better, Strifey?" he chirped. His knuckles still rested against Strife's face, his touch feather-light and tingling.

Strife stared up at him in horror. His stomach churned. Parvis sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Look, if it's not going to matter, I don't see why you've made me change at all," he said. "Unless this isn't actually better for you. I was really hoping this would be better for you, the others _really_ don't fit. At least I got to know Parvis _some_ before he abandoned me. Please don't make me change again, hey?"

Strife's eye twitched—again, there had been something about the phrasing that had set his teeth on edge.

"Get away from me," he croaked, his voice shaking.

"Oh," said Parvis. "Right, yeah. Duh. Why didn't I think of that?"

He got up and crossed to the dresser, hopping up to sit on it and kicking his feet. His head tipped to the side, a movement that rang so deeply of Rythian that it was perverse to see it happening on Parvis.

"Better?" he inquired.

"No," said Strife.

Parvis pouted. "All right, if you insist. But it'll be odd and very uncomfortable."

Again, there was the intense pressure that blurred his vision and trapped the air in his lungs.

Lalna was now sitting on his dresser, wearing robes of green and gold, his eyebrows raised expectantly. There was something _off_ about him, as though he was an image drawn from memory. His eyes weren't quite the right distance apart, the texture of his hair was wrong, his fingers were too long, his body too fit. When he spoke, it sounded like someone else doing a passable impression of Lalna.

"Now _please_ tell me this is better," he said. "Because I've only got one more, and I'm not sure you'll like it much. I really do wish you'd let me go back to Rythian. This one itches."

Lalna rolled his shoulders, wincing. Strife sat up in bed, slowly. His hand, of its own accord, reached out and grabbed the atomic disassembler and pulled it into his lap.

"I don't have anything to say to you," Strife said.

Pulling a face, Lalna sighed.

"Really? 'Cause, I mean, honestly you don't have to say all that much. Listening, actually, would be better. You could just listen."

"No," said Strife.

He paused, then said, "You still don't trust me, do you."

"Of _course_ I don't trust you," he retorted through gritted teeth.

"Oh," said Lalna, sagging. "I thought it was just the face. Is it—is it _still_ just the face? I get he's dead and all, and he _was_ a bit of a bastard. Dunno if you ever knew him, but he was _not_ a nice person. He got what was coming to him, honestly."

"He was good enough for Nano," Strife snapped, secondhand ire rising under his skin.

 _"Oh,_ no no no. No, this is the _other_ Lalna. D'you honestly think Nano would've put up with someone doing sanguimancy? Ahahah, that's ridiculous."

Something cold sank into Strife's stomach. "That's . . . not necessarily true," he said, his voice thin. "She—she only hates it _now_ because of . . . everything that happened."

Lalna shrugged. "Fair enough. But she _does_ hate it now, Strife. The _second_ the withdrawal hits, she'll know. And you've very cleverly decided to spend every waking moment with her." He grinned, and his smile was all wrong. "For a genius, you've really screwed this one up."

"Shut up," he snarled. "Shut up, you don't know _anything_ about this. You don't even know her."

"Don't I?" Lalna inquired sweetly. "All right, Strife, I really didn't want to have to do this, but you've forced my hand."

The pressure came back a third time; but even when it had gone, Strife found himself unable to breathe.

Sitting on his dresser was _himself._

The other Strife was fresh-faced, impeccably well-dressed, tanned and golden haired—and _young,_ good God, when had he _ever_ been that _young?_ He was wearing a self-satisfied smirk, and his skin was unmarred with scars of any kind. His eyes were bright and clear, free of dark circles and crow's feet. His shoulders were broad and strong, and the muscles of his forearms flickered under the skin as he drummed his fingers on the dresser.

"Hi," he said, when Strife had not spoken for well over a minute. His voice was unconcerned, tinged with casual cynicism.

"Y-you. . . ." Strife wheezed, his hands clenched on the shaft of the disassembler.

"Yeah," the Other Strife sighed, throwing a long-suffering glance at the ceiling. "Well, you never really gave me much to _work_ with, hey? I'm doing the best I can."

Strife's stomach lurched. He realized, suddenly, why that particular turn of phrase had been getting so far under his skin. This _thing,_ whatever it was, had stolen his voice, had been using it to speak through fabricated mouths—and now it had taken his face, too. He shifted his grip on the disassembler and prepared to swing his legs out of bed.

The Other Strife tipped its head, and the gesture curdled Strife's blood.

"You don't like it, huh," it said, frowning. "I've been trying to fix up the details with your newer stuff, but it's slow going. I might be able to get one on that looks like you do now, but, let's be honest, you're a mess. I like this one better, even if it _is_ a little _ehh."_

"Get out of my skin," Strife growled. He got up out of bed swiftly, holding the disassembler ready.

"Really?" the Other Strife asked. "I mean. _Really?_ 'Cause, like, okay, you've seen all the options, and I really thought this one might go over okay. Well, I figured about a fifty-percent chance it'd go over okay, and the other fifty percent was that you'd do what you're doing now, which is freaking out. I thought you _might_ listen to yourself, even if you won't listen to anybody else."

 _"Get out of my skin,"_ Strife repeated, his voice shaking with fury.

"You're not using it anymore," the Other Strife pointed out. "All right, look, I'm gonna lay the cards on the table for you. If you quit sanguimancy, Nano's gonna kill you."

Strife started forward, snarling. The Other Strife raised its hands in surrender, rocking back on the dresser.

"Hear me out!" it squeaked. "Okay? Jeez. Chill out. Look, she _knows_ what the withdrawal looks like. Everybody does. Everybody except you was in on the watch-Parvis-to-make-sure-he-doesn't-screw-up squad. So everybody knows what it looks like, Nano included. If you start showing off your shivering-helplessly skills, she's gonna know what you've been doing in your basement, and she is gonna _kill you._ And everybody else is gonna help."

Strife stood still, breathing heavily through his nose. There was some truth in what the Other Strife was saying, but he couldn't focus past the sheer _wrongness_ of its appearance.

"Get—" he began.

 _"Fine,_ jeez," the Other Strife interrupted, its voice heavy with impatience. The blurring pressure returned one last time, and the Other Strife was replaced in an instant with Rythian, wearing the same put-upon expression as the shell that had come before.

"There," said Rythian. "Thank you for making that a complete waste of time. I hope you won't ask me to change again, because now we both know it doesn't do any good. Will you listen to me now? It's not like I don't have all of eternity, but I feel like I might be wasting _your_ time."

Strife wrestled with himself for a few seconds, then lowered the disassembler. Rythian leaned back on his hands— _its_ hands, Strife reminded himself, because it certainly wasn't Rythian—and nodded.

"Thank you," it said. "Did any of what I was saying get through, or were you too upset to listen? I can always repeat myself, if necessary."

"She wouldn't hurt me," Strife said slowly. "I know she wouldn't."

"Why, because she kissed you?" Rythian asked candidly. Strife went crimson and started sputtering, but Rythian kept talking over him. "Yes, I know about that. I was there. She doesn't _love_ you, Strife. And even if she did, she's frightened, and you're dabbling in the thing that hurt her. I'm not saying she can _never_ know, I just think you should have some insurance before you let everyone in on our little secret. You saw how Parvis reacted. The others would undoubtedly be worse."

Strife clenched his jaw and swallowed back the automatic retorts that leapt to his tongue. This thing, monstrous though it was, had some kind of a point—if he started showing signs of withdrawal, everyone in town would recognize them instantly and draw their damning conclusions. Even if they didn't kill him, they would never allow him to stay. Worse, they might hand him over to Kirin, make him a prisoner at the mercy of a capricious god.

 _Never again,_ his hindbrain whispered.

"What . . . _kind_ of insurance?" he ground out eventually.

Rythian shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Whatever kind you think best. Rythian managed to keep a very large number of people from killing him, despite them desperately wanting to. Maybe you could look into how he did it."

"You don't know?" he asked.

Rythian grinned at him. "I _mostly_ know," he said. "But I think it's better if you figure it out for yourself. I know _what_ he was doing. I couldn't tell you how he was doing it."

"Mind-control," Strife said flatly. "That's what you're talking about."

"I wouldn't call it that," Rythian said. "But yes, that's what I'm talking about. Parvis seems to know how it works. You could ask him."

"He wouldn't tell me," Strife said. "He'll kill me if I don't quit blood magic."

Rythian waved a hand dismissively. "No, he won't. You saw him, Strife. He was _desperate_ for someone to manage his mind for him. If you offer that to him, he couldn't possibly turn you away."

"It's _wrong,"_ said Strife.

"Is it?" Rythian asked. "It's what he wants. What's wrong about giving someone what they want?"

"It—he—but the _others,"_ he said, changing tack mid-sputter. "I can't just—just mind-control them into—into what, not killing me?"

Rythian tipped his head to the side. "Why not?" he asked.

"Because it's _wrong!"_

"Killing you would also be wrong," he pointed out. "You're not hurting anyone."

"I won't do it," Strife said. "I'm _not_ doing it."

Rythian shrugged and sighed. "Well, if you say so. But I really would recommend not quitting _just_ yet. Maybe you could take a vacation and have your withdrawal where no one can see. I really am sure Nano will kill you if she catches on that you've been doing sanguimancy. I'm very certain."

Strife took a deep breath. "Get out of my room," he said.

Rythian laughed. "I'm not in your room, Strife. Just in your head."

 _"Get out,"_ he snarled.

He woke up in bed, hands clutching the sheets over his chest.

The rest of the night was spent in his workshop, meticulously cleaning every inch of the disassembler's interior.

* * *

 

Although he'd gotten less than three hours of sleep in total, Strife still showed up at the noodle bar first thing in the morning. Nano clearly noticed the bags under his eyes, raising her eyebrows at him when he came in nursing his fourth cup of coffee, but she said nothing. She walked him through her morning routine, getting the restaurant ready for opening, and even allowed him to clumsily pull some noodles out from dough, which he botched horribly.

Around noon, Kirin wandered in, ducking to fit through the door. Something winched up in Strife's chest, leaving him tense. He had to step away from the boiling water and preoccupy himself with cleaning the preparation dishes. He felt Nano watching him, and kept his eyes firmly on his hands.

"Hey guys," said Kirin, drifting up to the bar. "Whatcha doing?"

"The same thing I do every day, Kirin," Nano answered primly. "What are _you_ doing?"

"Oh, y'know," he said. "The usual. You two working together now? That's cute."

Strife's hand found a very sharp knife at the bottom of the murky dishwater. He took it out and made sure Kirin could see him washing it.

"Yes," said Nano. "Did you want something, or have you just come in to be irritating? Because if it's that, you're certainly succeeding."

Kirin shrugged. "Sorry. I get bored up in my glorious manor house that no one appreciates. I just wanted to come down and say hi, see how the mortals were getting along. Can I get a cup of tea?"

Nano made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and set about making him his tea. Strife felt Kirin's gaze tickle the back of his neck.

"I think it's probably clean by now," he remarked.

Strife was already starting the turn to hurl the knife through Kirin's eye when the door opened, ringing the little bell, and Kirin turned to see who had come in.

"Hi Nilesy!" he chirped. "Hi Lomadia. How're you two?"

"Oh, _God,"_ Lomadia muttered under her breath.

"Yeah," said Kirin. "I was looking at your little garden earlier. It's cute. Your tomatoes are doing really badly, though. I could help with that, if you wanted."

"No, thank you," Nilesy said, his consonants clipped. "We're getting on just _fine."_

"Oh," said Kirin. "Well, okay, if you say so. They just look so sad. I really wouldn't mind helping out."

 _"No,"_ Lomadia said firmly. She and Nilesy seated themselves against the far wall, throwing dirty looks at Kirin the whole way. Kirin sighed and turned back to Strife, who had managed to make himself put the knife on the drying rack.

"Nobody appreciates me," Kirin lamented.

"You don't _do_ anything," Nano told him, setting a steaming cup of tea on the bar in front of him, "so I don't think you have much room to complain."

"I _would,"_ he replied. "If anyone would _let_ me do anything. You're all so _independent._ I mean, it's cute, really, and I don't mind it, but you do kind of make a mess of things. I wish you'd let me help."

Strife found, to his delight, another knife at the bottom of the sink. This one was serrated.

"And what _help,_ precisely, do you think you'd be?" Nano asked him, putting a fist on her hip.

"Well, I—" Kirin began, and broke off, looking sharply over his shoulder. His eyes widened with recognition, and then he turned back to the bar and bowed his head, putting a hand over his eyes.

"Oh God no," he mumbled.

"What's wrong with _you,_ then?" Nano demanded.

"You'll see," said Kirin. He got up out of his stool and faced the door, his face stony with stoicism.

On cue, the door slammed open, and a black-and-ginger blur streaked in through it and cannoned into Kirin with almost enough force to topple him.

 _"Where have you been?!"_ the blur squeaked. It had resolved into a small, ginger-haired man, wearing black evening dress and dangling from Kirin's shoulders. His arms were looped around Kirin's neck, and his feet were, as such, almost two feet off the ground, kicking excitedly.

"Hiiii," Kirin said, drawing out the word awkwardly, "Garion. Hi. Wow. Uhh . . . wow! Long time, no see, huh?"

"It's been _centuries!"_ Garion cried. His face was buried in Kirin's chest, and his voice was muffled. The loose curls of his hair bounced as he talked. "I waited and waited and waited and you didn't come back! I've been looking for you!"

"Uh, listen, Garion, _maaaybe_ now isn't the best time, okay?" Kirin said. His eyes darted. All four of the other people in the noodle bar were watching him with interest. Strife was still holding the knife.

Garion dropped off of Kirin and took a step back. His face was round and cherubic, although he wore an incongruous set of mutton-chops that were doubtless supposed to look like Kirin's. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and fiddled with his fingers.

"I . . . I know you _told_ me to wait, but it'd been, like, two hundred years, and I started to get worried. Not that I don't think you can take care of yourself, but I thought, maybe . . . you'd gotten distracted? Like you do. Sooo, um, I came looking, and I've been looking. Um. Ever since. I know I probably should have gone back—"

"Garion, this is really not the time," Kirin warned, but Garion was still talking.

"—but I knew none of the other vampires would be looking for you—"

 _"Damnit,"_ Kirin whispered.

There was a quiet squealing sound as Lomadia and Nilesy got up from their seats. There was a faint _click_ as Nano took the gun out from under the bar and cocked it, pointing it right at Garion's head. Strife took the first knife down from the drying rack and held both knives at the ready.

"Sorry," Lomadia said, her voice dark with anger. "What was that about vampires?"

"Oh!" said Garion brightly, turning to her. "Yeah, there are actually a lot of us, but nobody else really thought it was important to find Kirin. I don't know why, I mean—"

 _"Garion please stop talking,"_ Kirin muttered.

"—he _is_ our sire and everything—"

Slowly, deliberately, every eye in the noodle bar shifted to Kirin. He was standing with his face in his hands, shaking his head. Garion's reedy voice wound down, his eyes darting between Kirin and the hard, angry faces of the others.

"Oh," he said. "Um. I'm going to—just stop talking now."

"Thank you," Kirin said, his voice strained.

"Well," Nano said, her voice glassy and sharp. "That certainly explains a few things. Solidarity among monsters, was it?"

 _"Monsters?"_ Garion cried, puffing up like an angry cat. "How dare you—"

Kirin reached out and put a heavy hand on Garion's head.

"Garion," he said, "will you, please, just go up to the great big house on top of the hill and wait there for me? Please?"

"Nano," Nilesy said, not taking his eyes off of Kirin and Garion. "Have you, by any chance, gotten round to powdering up that garlic we gave you last week? No reason, I'm just, ahah, asking for a friend. Not related in any way, but how attached are you to these chair legs?"

Kirin's head turned slowly, inexorably. Garion squeaked and hid behind him, clutching his coat tails like a frightened child. Nilesy went white as a sheet under Kirin's gaze.

"You will not touch him," Kirin said, his voice dark and cold as the sea. "No one will come anywhere near him. Do you understand me? You will not harm a hair on his head."

"Or what?" Lomadia demanded.

Again, his attention shifted slowly, like the turn of the tide. She shrank underneath it.

"There isn't an _or,"_ he told her calmly. "You won't touch him. That's all there is to it."

"What about _you?"_ Nano said. "Will we be harming _you?"_

Strife fancied he could hear Kirin's feet grinding down into the floor, scraping like stone as he turned. He saw Nano blanch when his attention landed on her, but she stayed resolute. She was pointing the gun at his heart.

"You are welcome to try," he said, his tone unchanged.

Nano shot him in the chest.

Garion screamed, leaping backwards in a blur and ending up crouched atop the corner booth. Strife started, his whole body jolting at the deafening _bang_ of the gun's report.

Kirin looked down at his chest, and then back up at Nano.

"Finished?" he inquired.

Trembling, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, Nano did not respond; but nor did she fire again, or lower the gun. She seemed frozen, trapped under ice and unable to move or breathe.

"Okay," said Kirin. He turned away and beckoned to Garion. "Come on, Garion. We're going home. I'll talk to the mortals again when they're done overreacting."

Gingerly, Garion got down off the table and scurried over to Kirin's side, taking the god's huge hand in both of his own. He threw a glance over his shoulder at Nano, biting his lip.

"They seem really upset," he said quietly, as the two of them headed out the door.

"They always do," Kirin said.

The door closed behind them, and they moved off towards Kirin's manor. For a time, absolute silence reigned in the noodle bar.

"We're killing them," said Lomadia. "Right?"

"Nano?" Strife said quietly, because she still hadn't moved.

Slowly, she nodded. He put down one of his knives and sidled over to her, holding out a hand.

"Can I have the gun, please?" he asked.

Still trembling, she pried one hand off the stock of the gun, then moved it in Strife's general direction. He took it from her, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor.

The moment it was out of her hands, she sank to the floor, crying silently, shaking like a leaf. Slowly, Strife sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah," Nilesy said. "We're _definitely_ killing them."

 


	12. Chapter 12

Zoey woke suddenly in the middle of the night, her ears ringing with the sound of distant screaming. Fumbling in the dark, she got out of bed and tried to find her jacket. Rythian was not there, but his coat was, and her premonition of disaster was so strong that she simply slipped it on and wrapped it tight around herself.

It was still warm.

Heart in her throat, Zoey stepped out into the frigid desert night, her breath fogging the clear, still air. A trillion stars spattered the sky overhead, and a crescent moon peeked above the horizon. The lights were on in the magic tent, and she hurried towards it, shivering with more than just the cold.

She pushed open the tent flap and stepped inside. It fell closed behind her, making quiet bird-wing noises as it did.

Rythian was curled up on the ground, bleeding hands cradled to his chest, trembling and weeping. There was a long, shallow cut across one of his cheeks, dribbling blood down over his lips and nose. He flinched, whimpering, as Zoey entered.

"Don't," he begged, his voice thin and full of pain.

Behind him, the altar gurgled and spat, fuming with an oily black smoke. The room smelled like a slaughterhouse, and there were russet stains bleeding down the sides of the central stone block, spattered on the floor.

"Oh my gosh!" Zoey squeaked, darting forward.

_"Don't,"_ he snarled, his eyes snapping open. Zoey froze, her heart hammering, until Rythian shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut in pain.

She hurried to his side and knelt next to him. He whimpered, baring his teeth, struggling to breathe. She touched him on the shoulder and he jerked like her fingers had been electrified.

"What d'you need?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

He shook his head, pressing his uninjured cheek into the sand.

"Go," he moaned. "Please, _go."_

"I want to _help,"_ she said, her voice cracking.

"No," Rythian cautioned, and kept repeating the word to himself over and over again under his breath.

"Rythian, please," Zoey begged, her eyes filling with tears, panic clawing at her chest. "Please, let me help you."

He hissed in a breath through his teeth and then pointed one bloodied, trembling finger at the table against the wall. Without hesitation, Zoey scurried over to the table. It was littered with an assortment of junk—a leather-bound notebook, pen and ink, pages and pages of schematics and runes and scribbled notes, vials of thick red liquid in several different shades—but she wasted no time in wondering what, precisely, Rythian had wanted from the table. She grabbed up the glass-bladed dagger and hurried back to him, dropping to her knees and offering him the gold-wrapped hilt.

He snatched it from her so quickly that the blade sliced into her palm, nipping just deep enough to draw blood. She yelped and yanked her hands back, her heart stuttering with sudden terror.

Rythian plunged the dagger into his own shoulder and gasped like he'd been holding his breath for an hour. Blood dribbled from the wound, hissing faintly as it pooled on the floor. To Zoey's horror, the blood soaked down into the rock, wicked away like water into a huge sponge. The altar gurgled again, then started burbling like a mountain stream.

"It—it," Zoey stammered, her mind whited out with panic. "R-Rythian, it—it—"

Very slowly, Rythian sat up, the dagger still lodged in his shoulder. He took a deep breath and sighed it out again, his face gone calm and placid. He opened his eyes and looked at Zoey. They were a red so vibrant and pure that they looked like gemstones.

He extended a hand. His fingers were blistered, bloodied, riddled with splinters of black glass.

"Let me see," he said gently.

Zoey cradled her hand against her chest. She suddenly felt immensely vulnerable, kneeling on the floor next to Rythian. Blood was still running from the wound in his shoulder, soaking his shirt.

"Y-y-you've got . . . you've got. . . ."

"I know," he said, his tone unchanged. "It would be worse if I pulled it out. Let me see, Zoey."

Reluctantly, Zoey extended her injured hand. Rythian took it, his touch feather-light. He examined the wound, his face expressionless, his fingers leaving smears of soot and blood on her skin.

"Am I. . . ?" she began, and trailed off, too terrified to even finish thinking the question.

He had stopped turning her hand, stopped angling it to better catch the light. He was staring fixedly at the blood beaded along the cut, his breath as slow and steady as if he had been sleeping.

Gently, he trailed his fingertip along the cut. A chill raced up Zoey's spine, freezing the blood in her veins. She pulled her hand back, once again cradling it against her chest. Rythian watched it go, then raised his eyes to meet hers.

"Does it hurt?" he asked. His voice was low and mellifluous, like honey drizzling onto her brain.

"Um," she said. She glanced at the knife in his shoulder. "I . . . I, um—that really looks bad—"

"Don't worry about me, Zoey," he said. "Does it hurt?"

"A—a little bit," she admitted hoarsely. "Um. Please can we—can we do something about—about the thing in your thing? Please can we—"

Calmly, Rythian wrapped his hand around the hilt of the dagger and yanked it out. There was a horrible sucking noise, and blood started to pour from the wound, pattering down onto the floor like rain. Rythian shut his eyes and tipped his head back, his lips parting.

_"No no no no no,"_ Zoey exclaimed, falling over herself to try and press her hands to the wound.

She suddenly found the bloodsoaked tip of the dagger touched to her throat. She froze in place, her body locking up with terror, heart and lungs constricted by the sheer weight of the fear.

"Shh," Rythian said, swaying where he sat. He was growing noticeably pale. The altar behind him was bubbling away like a pot of boiling water, disgorging a torrent of black smoke, spitting droplets of blood into the air. Even as she watched, it overflowed, sending a line of red blood scurrying down its side. Rythian made a quiet, longing noise in the back of his throat, and before she realized what was happening, he had taken the dagger away from her neck and scored a deep cut along the back of his injured arm.

The altar _rumbled._ A gout of blood gushed over its sides. Rythian toppled sideways, limp and pale. Zoey's heart stopped.

In the next minutes, time skipped and jumped like a scratched record. She was leaning over Rythian, pressing her hands to the bleeding wound, begging him to wake up; she was staggering through the cold, blood covering her hands; she was tying Rythian's coat tight around his shoulder, crying; she was tearing her hair out by the brewing stand, growing more certain with every passing second that Rythian was already dead.

She was cradling his body in her arms, her arms and chest smeared with blood, weeping.

His chest hitched, and she realized that he was still breathing. She snatched up the freshly-made potion and pressed it to his lips, supporting his head on her biceps, pouring the lifesaving elixir dropwise into his mouth. Her hands were shaking, and it took all her focus not to spill the potion, especially with her vision so blurred by tears.

Slowly, the bleeding abated. By the time half the bottle was empty, he was breathing noticeably again. Shortly afterwards, his eyelids fluttered, and he regained consciousness, looking up at her through unfocused, dull eyes.

"Zoey?" he croaked.

"I'm here," she promised. "You're gonna be okay. C'mon, drink up."

She touched the mouth of the bottle to his lips again. Weakly, he reached up and draped his fingers over her wrist, lifting his head as he drank the last of the potion. He subsided into her arms, his eyes roving aimlessly over the ceiling. The panicked tightness of her chest began to loosen, and she set the empty bottle down, the better to hold him.

"You really scared me," she said, her voice scarcely a murmur.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"What . . . what _happened?"_ she asked, though the question threatened to choke her with the lump it brought to her throat.

A thin line appeared between his brows, and he let his head roll back and forth on her arm.

"I don't know," he said. "I was making an orb. To store the essence. But it . . . went wrong. I couldn't think right, couldn't . . . focus. It hurt. It hurt, and I . . . made it stop hurting. It didn't hurt, when I. . . ."

Zoey tightened her arms around him. He turned his head to look at her, and his eyes were full of such undisguised love that it made her chest ache.

"You saved me," he said.

"Please don't ever make me do it again," she said, her lip trembling. A pair of tears rolled down her cheeks. Rythian reached up a languid hand and wiped one of them away, his hand lingering on her cheek. His touch was soft, tingling against her skin, and she turned her head into it, closing her eyes.

"Thank you," he murmured.

She swallowed heavily. She could feel him looking at her, the warmth of his gaze kissing her skin like sunlight. Her heart fluttered at the sensation. Taking a steadying breath, she opened her eyes and looked down at him.

The expression of unguarded adoration still lingered on his face, pinned in the corners of his mouth and the tilt of his eyebrows, lit by the red jewel light of his eyes.

It was so lovely that it took her breath away.

Rythian raised his head, just a fraction, and Zoey dipped her head to meet him there.

She kissed him, and for an instant, everything was beautiful.

Then, piece by piece, it all fell apart.

His lips were too thin, too hard. His stubble grated at her chin. He smelled of blood and sweat, and tasted of the bitter potion. He was heavy in her arms, his hand coarse against her cheek. Her stomach lurched with sudden revulsion and she jerked away from him, spilling him out of her lap and scooting back across the floor.

Reality crashed down on her like a wave, the terrible reality of what she had just done. A deep sickness boiled up in her stomach and poisoned her blood, drenching her insides in tar. She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified, trembling. Rythian was struggling to get his limbs underneath him, looking stunned and disoriented. He caught sight of her and froze, his face the very picture of concern.

"Zoey," he said, as though talking to a rabid dog. "Zoey, I . . . I can explain."

"Oh, God," she whispered into her hand, staring straight through the wall. Her bones had all rotted, her heart dissolving in the acrid tar that filled her.

"Zoey," Rythian repeated. His voice was shaking, strained. "It—it isn't what you think—it isn't your fault—"

With a wail, Zoey burst into tears. She clambered to her feet and started running, not caring where she was going, not caring for the cold or the blood caked on her clothes or the terrors of the night. She fled, running until her lungs burned and her legs gave out underneath her, and she collapsed in the sand and sobbed, sicker than she had ever been in her life, her mind swarming with a thousand halfway-thoughts that all boiled down to a single vicious sentiment.

What was _wrong_ with her?

* * *

 

Less than a second after Fiona opened the door, Zoey was sobbing again, unable to look her in the eye, hardly able to breathe past the horrible guilt that gummed up her insides.

"Oh, God, Zoey," Fiona said, her voice full of worry. She reached out and folded Zoey into a tight hug, which only made the sobs worsen.

She didn't deserve this. Not from Fiona. Not after what she'd done.

But she couldn't bring herself to pull away, to deprive herself of the warmth and comfort and absolute love of Fiona's embrace, and so she just stood and sobbed with her hands balled into fists at her sides and her heart aching fit to burst.

"Are you hurt?" Fiona asked softly, petting Zoey's hair.

Zoey shook her head, her breath coming in staccato gasps.

"It's—I—I—I've done s-something—a-awful," she managed, her voice strangled by the lump in her throat.

Fiona's hand stilled its petting, and then Fiona took Zoey by the shoulders and stepped back.

"Well then, you'd better come inside," she said. Her face displayed nothing but concern.

Hiccuping with sobs, Zoey allowed herself to be led inside and settled on the sofa. Fiona sat down next to her and took her hands.

"I'm here," she said, running her thumbs back and forth across Zoey's knuckles.

It took Zoey a full five minutes to spit out the words, because they kept getting stuck in her throat, dragging the tar up from inside her, threatening to spill it out over her lips. She couldn't see through the tears in her eyes, and there were long trails of snot running down over her mouth.

"I . . . k-kissed Rythian," she said at last, and the words shattered her, tore out her internal supports and left her crumbled, sobbing harder than ever. The rest of the words were squeezed out by the collapse, and tumbled through her lips in fits and spurts.

"He was—he almost—there was so _much_ blood, and I—and he just seemed so—and I w-wasn't thinking but I _w-wanted_ to and he was there and it was all wrong and—and—and I'm so _sorry,_ I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry. . . ."

Fiona was silent for a long time, and with every passing second, Zoey's heart broke a little more. Fiona was still stroking the backs of Zoey's hands, her motions distracted.

"I'm not angry, Zo," Fiona said quietly. "Christ, I'm _relieved._ I thought you'd _killed_ someone."

The shattered ruins of Zoey shifted and crumbled further, and she curled in on herself with the pain of it, bowing her head and sobbing. Fiona took her face in her hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Zoey," Fiona insisted. "Sweetheart. I'm _not_ angry. I'm . . . confused, yes, and a little hurt, maybe, and _definitely_ worried, but I am _not_ angry with you. Okay? It's going to be all right, Zo. I promise it's going to be all right."

"I'm s-sorry," Zoey whispered, the black tar of guilt boiling through the cracks in her.

"And I forgive you!" Fiona said. "I forgive you. I still love you. I want to help. Okay? Whatever's happened, whatever's going on, we'll figure it out. It's going to be all right, Zoey."

Zoey fell into her, trembling, bawling. Fiona wrapped her arms around her and held her close, murmuring soft assurances into her hair, and always, _always_ restating her love.

* * *

 

Dawn had come and gone. Fiona had made them both breakfast, and Zoey had finally managed to calm down. It had taken a long bath, a heap of warm blankets, and a mug of hot chocolate, but she had gotten there in the end. She had dressed in the spare clothes she kept at Fiona's and left her bloodstained clothes—and Rythian's equally bloody coat—in a heap in the laundry room. Now, Zoey and Fiona sat at the kitchen table, both eating one-handed so they could keep their fingers laced.

Zoey had just finished telling Fiona the events of the night before, and Fiona was scowling down at her yogurt like it might have been complicit in the affair.

"You got cut," she said slowly.

"Um?" said Zoey. She looked down at her palm. In light of everything that had happened on either side, that particular detail had drastically diminished in importance.

The cut was still there, shallow, scabbed over. Bits of sand were stuck in it. Zoey made a face and swallowed down nausea.

"Yeah," she admitted. "That, um, that happened."

Fiona's jaw tightened. "Right. Well, maybe that goes some way toward explaining all of this."

Zoey raised her eyebrows, sitting forward. "It—it does? How?"

Shrugging, Fiona answered, "You've seen how _he_ gets when he's been at the knife. I dunno, maybe it was something like that."

Slowly, reluctantly, Zoey shook her head.

"I don't . . . I honestly don't think so. I really don't. It wasn't like—it didn't feel any different from just a—like a normal, y'know, cut. And, and the way Rythian talks about it, I think . . . it'd be different."

Fiona sighed. "It was a thought," she said.

"It was a really good one! And—and it might not be wrong! Maybe it _is_ just, y'know, I got the . . . the awful magic-stuff in my head, and it sort of, y'know, sort of messed me up a little? That would be good. I mean, not like, _good,_ but it would be better than. . . ."

She trailed off, lowering her eyes. She pushed an orange slice around her plate, watching the juice trail on the ceramic.

Fiona squeezed her hand. "It'll be all right, Zo," she promised. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."

"Maybe—" Zoey began, and discarded the idea, shaking her head.

"What?" Fiona asked.

"Nothing," said Zoey. "Only . . . only Rythian _did_ say he could, like, explain? So, maybe—just as a sort of a sometime-later sort of thing—maybe we could . . . ask him?"

Fiona had gone steely.

"I really don't think that's what he meant," she said, her words clipped.

"Oh," said Zoey, drooping. "Well . . . maybe we should, um, sort of just like, check on him? It's—I mean, it's not his _fault,_ what happened, and he was—I mean he _did_ almost . . . y'know."

"Kill himself?" Fiona supplied sharply.

Zoey swallowed heavily, a trembly feeling in her gut.

"Um," she said. "Yeah. That. S-so maybe . . . I dunno, I don't really—I mean it'd sort of just be an awful way to . . . to have all this turn out. I mean, just, maybe I shouldn't be around him anymore, but—"

"Yes to that," Fiona said.

Zoey pouted at her. She raised her free hand and bowed her head.

"Sorry," she said. "Go on."

_"But,"_ Zoey said, "I just . . . I'm really worried. About . . . all of this. A-and if anybody would know what to do about, y'know, me getting, um, cut, and what would happen, or whatever, it—it'd be him. And it'd be sort of really bad if bad stuff started happening to me and no one was there to help. Right?"

"A person could argue that bad stuff is _already_ happening to you," Fiona muttered.

"Oh. Um. Worse stuff, I meant."

Fiona sighed. She chewed her lip, wiggled her nose, and seemed to come to a conclusion.

"If it's really that important to you," she said, "I suppose we can look in on him from time to time. But I would really, _really_ prefer it if I could go with you. I would really prefer you not be alone with him. At least until this is all figured out."

Something cold settled into the pit of Zoey's stomach, and she nodded.

"Okay," she said.

"It's not that I don't trust you," Fiona hastened to add.

"It's okay if you don't," Zoey mumbled. "I haven't really earned it."

"Zoey, can I be honest with you? Even though you won't like what I have to say?"

Zoey took a steadying breath, then nodded, braced for the worst.

"I think it _is_ his fault," Fiona said.

Zoey started, taken completely aback, her jaw dropping.

"I think he's done something to you," Fiona went on. "I think he _made_ you kiss him. I trust you, Zoey. I do _not_ trust _him."_

Zoey fidgeted. "No," she said. "No. That's not . . . really what happened. I didn't feel like I . . . _had_ to, I didn't feel like anybody, like, _forced_ me. I . . . I just—wanted to."

She had started shivering again, and she withdrew her hand from Fiona's grasp to wrap her arms around her own belly.

"I just _wanted_ to," she repeated in a hoarse whisper.

Fiona was silent for almost a minute. Zoey thought she could hear her teeth grinding against one another.

"Fine," she said. "But I _still_ don't trust him."

Zoey's palms itched with the memory of blood. She shuddered.

"Me, neither," she admitted.

"Hey, Zo?"

She glanced up. Fiona was regarding her pensively, her chin in her hands.

"Yeah?" Zoey said.

"D'you wanna go to the beach? Like, the real beach, with waves and seagulls and everything? And we can buy cute matching swimsuits and eat too much ice cream and get knocked over by the waves?"

Zoey blinked at her, caught off-balance.

"Uh?" she said. "Uh, y-yeah. Yeah! That sounds . . . really nice! And—and could we get like, a really squishy hotel bed with the big fluffy pillows and too many blankets?"

"And sleep in it until noon," Fiona offered.

"And smooch lots!" Zoey blurted. Fiona laughed.

"Yes," she said. "Definitely that." She got to her feet. "Let's go. Right now. We'll spend the weekend."

"Oh! Um! Shouldn't we—shouldn't we pack? Or—or like, something?"

"We'll sleep in our clothes," Fiona declared, then added with a wink: "Or not, y'know."

Zoey snorted, and the snort turned into a giggle. She stood as well and held out her hands to Fiona, who took them and pulled her close.

"I love you lots," said Fiona.

"I love you very lots," Zoey replied, and kissed her. Fiona chuckled against her lips.

Within an hour, they were riding on top of a coach bound for the coast, the wind in their hair, their hands firmly entwined.

And despite everything, Zoey was happy.

 


	13. Chapter 13

"I can help you kill the god," Rythian mentioned.

Strife jumped halfway out of his chair, his head jerking up so fast he pulled a muscle in his neck. Rythian was leaning in the corner by the door, watching him work. Strife looked down at his hands, still covered in metal shavings.

"Knew I should've had that sixth cup of coffee," Strife said.

"Sleep is good for you," Rythian said. "I'm still waiting for you to react, by the way. Should I repeat myself?"

"I have _work_ to do," Strife growled, glaring at him.

"You certainly do," he replied. "I think sixth tier might be enough, if you use all this science stuff as well."

"No," said Strife, going back to his work, which currently consisted of drilling holes in a thin steel plate.

Rythian sighed. "You haven't even heard my strategy."

"Doesn't matter," he said. "It won't work."

"Not with _that_ attitude, certainly."

"Kirin's a _god,"_ Strife said.

"And I'm a force of nature. Who do you think is more powerful?"

"Him," Strife answered immediately.

"Wrong," Rythian said. "He was mortal, once. Had you figured that out yet, or did you miss it?"

"It doesn't _matter,"_ Strife said, gritting his teeth, "because he _isn't anymore."_

"I would disagree," said Rythian.

"Would you go away? I'm working."

"You're sleeping," Rythian pointed out.

"I would _like_ to be working."

"On what? What could possibly be more important than deicide?"

"Shut up," he growled, "and leave me alone."

"What are you so _afraid_ of, Strife?" Rythian asked, making an exasperated gesture. "What could be worse than living under Kirin's thumb?"

"Living under yours," Strife retorted.

"Rythian's," he corrected. "I'm still not him. And, all right, fair enough. For now. You heard what the little parasite said about Kirin. Who's to say you're not being fattened up for the harvest?"

"Go _away."_

"You're angry because I'm right," Rythian said, and Strife could hear faint strains of Parvis still clinging to the words.

The realization came, slowly, that this thing had stolen more voices than his own.

"Don't you _dare,"_ Strife growled, glaring at him.

"Don't I dare what, Strifey?" Rythian asked.

"Stop using his _voice!"_

"Why don't you make me?"

Strife got up and stalked over to Rythian, reveling in the way he shrank into the corner. His blood was boiling for reasons he couldn't quite place, his hands itching for violence. The sickly pale thing in his heart was fluttering its gills.

Rythian grinned at him, but it was a nervous expression. He was cowering, his hands upraised in surrender. Strife wasn't sure if he'd always been taller than Rythian, but he was enjoying the experience of looking down on him.

"Oh, dear," he said, a thready chuckle in his voice. "There's no need for violence, my pet."

Strife shattered with explosive force, a fireball roaring out through his body, lifting his arm to strike Rythian backhanded across the face, so hard it knocked him off balance. Rythian caught himself on the wall, eyes closed, jaw slack. His lip was bleeding. The back of Strife's hand stung, his knuckles ached from the force of impact.

Slowly, Rythian looked up at Strife. There was a fire in his eyes.

"Again," he said quietly.

Strife drove his fist into Rythian's face. Rythian's head cracked against the wall. He shoved Strife in the chest, pushing him back a step, then advanced on him. Blood was already flowing from his nose, the same color as his eyes.

_"Again,"_ he insisted.

Strife threw himself on Rythian with a snarl, knocking him to the floor, pummeling his face with both fists, the fire in his blood roaring, the terrible white _thing_ tearing its way out of his heart to lend its strength to his limbs. Blood spattered on his arms, his face. Rythian thrashed underneath him, digging his fingers into Strife's thighs as Strife beat his face to a fine bloody pulp, until he finally went still.

Kneeling astride the motionless body, panting and trembling with exhaustion, Strife slowly came back to himself. His hands were bloody up to the wrists. His knuckles were split open, and one of his fingers felt broken. His lungs stung, his heart fluttered. The hands on his thighs slid away, limp.

"Better?" Rythian asked.

Strife turned so fast he fell over, landing hard on his hands. Rythian was sitting in the chair at his desk, propping his chin on two knuckles, smiling faintly.

"You—but—you—" Strife stammered. Sick with horror, he looked down at the ruined corpse on the floor.

"Yes, I know," said Rythian, waving a hand. "But it was good, wasn't it? It was _good."_

"Who. . . ?" he croaked, still staring at the body, trembling.

"No one," Rythian told him. "You _are_ dreaming, after all."

On cue, the body evaporated, leaving only a few smears of blood on the floor. Strife's hands continued to ache, his body to tremble and burn.

Strife glared up at Rythian, still struggling to catch his breath.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

Rythian tipped his head to the side. "You needed it," he said.

"I did _not."_

"But you feel better now, don't you? It's all right, you can say you feel better. Was it good? To kill Rythian with your own two hands. To feel him die. It was _good."_

"You're sick," Strife said, his voice shaking.

Rythian smiled at him. "I'm right," he allowed.

"Get out of my head," he ordered. "Get _out_ of my _head."_

Clicking his teeth, Rythian shook his head. He laced his fingers together and sat forward.

"Strife," he said, very seriously. "I'm trying to help you. The withdrawal will start tomorrow if you don't do something about it. They _will_ give you to Kirin. They will take your weapons and your machines and they will lock you away in the dark."

"They won't," Strife insisted, gritting his teeth, even as his heart stuttered with panic.

"No?" Rythian asked, raising his eyebrows. "I think they will, Strife. I think they'll send you back. I think Kirin will make you his little _pet."_

_"No,"_ he blurted, his voice coming out as a squeak.

"Oh, yes," Rythian promised, eyes glimmering like coals. "Do you think you'll snap faster this time, since you're already broken?"

"Stop," he said, lips numb, veins icing over.

"Do you think he'll bother to make you love what he does to you?"

_"Stop,"_ he moaned, curling in on himself and tangling his hands in his hair.

"And maybe he'll _also_ give you to his assistant when he's done fucking you unconscious—"

_"Stop!"_ Strife screamed, his fingernails drawing blood from his scalp, the air sticking in his lungs.

Gently, a hand touched his face. He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Would you like it to stop, my pet?" Rythian inquired sweetly.

Strife woke up screaming, curled up on the floor of his workshop with blood on his knuckles and blood on the floor. Blinded by panic, suffocating on it, he staggered to his basement, toppled through the hidden door, clawed his way to the glass dagger and plunged it into his gut.

The ice melted from his blood. The terrible keening panic went quiet. The air thickened until he could breathe it again. He sank to his knees, bleary-eyed and weak.

Staring ahead at nothing, he yanked the knife out.

And then he drove it in again.

His vision filled with sparks, and all the breath went out of him. His nerves sparked and tingled. His chest was hitching, and he had no idea if it was laughter or sobs.

He pulled the knife out. He buried it in his stomach again.

Darkness encroached around him, warm and sweet and silent. His body had gone numb, and he felt himself floating out of it, drifting away.

He pulled the knife out. Blood was spilling down over his legs, hot and sticky.

And he struck one more time, burying the blade up to the hilt in his soft flesh.

And the darkness embraced him like a lover.

* * *

 

Bitterness flooded his mouth. He had the worst stomach ache of his life. He felt like he'd been stabbed.

Slowly, as his mind resurfaced, he realized that he had been.

Someone was holding his head up, touching a bottle to his lips. Strife pried his eyes open, though it felt like his eyelids were made of lead. There was a blurry, dark shape looming over him.

Everything clicked into place—the grey stone walls, the bitter taste of healing potion, the white-hot memory of pain, even the smell of his caretaker.

Of its own accord, Strife's hand reached out and weakly plucked at Parvis's shirt.

"No, no, shh," said Parvis. "Stop, it's all right."

Strife whimpered, trying to sit up. Pain lanced through his insides, and he fell back. Cold glass touched his lips, and he drank until Parvis took the bottle away.

His other hand joined its brother, trying to draw Parvis closer, to reel him in thread by thread. He always had to make it so difficult. At least Rythian played by the rules he'd written.

"Strife, stop," Parvis insisted.

"But," Strife said, hoarse. There was blood on his breath, somewhere under the potion. He tried to sit up again, and again the pain in his gut forced him to abandon the enterprise. He did manage to turn his head enough to kiss Parvis's arm. It wouldn't have been enough for Rythian, but since it was Parvis, it was probably an acceptable start.

_"Stop._ Drink your damn potion, you idiot."

Dutifully, Strife returned his head to center and parted his lips. Parvis let him drink until the bottle was empty. By the time he was done, his insides had stopped hurting quite so much. He kissed Parvis's arm again, and then again, letting his lips linger as he'd been taught.

"We're not doing this," Parvis told him. "I'm not _doing_ this today."

Strife managed to get an arm over Parvis's shoulder and started pulling himself upright. Parvis grabbed him by the biceps and shoved him away, holding him at arm's length. Strife whined. Parvis always had to make things so _difficult._

If only he would just cooperate. If only Strife could just rewire him to make him _comply._

He felt Parvis shudder.

"Stop," he breathed.

Slowly, Strife raised his eyes. Parvis was sitting on the floor, his shirt and arms red with Strife's blood, blinking as though stunned, his mouth open, his breath coming short.

Strife let the thought roll around in his head for a few seconds before he set it loose, pressing it through Parvis's temple.

_Comply._

Parvis shivered again, his eyes fluttering closed, his head tipping back. Black and pointed teeth glittered between his parted lips.

"Strife," he whispered, and it was a plea, a _prayer._

And gently, Strife took Parvis's face in his bloodsoaked hands, and drew him close, and kissed him, and breathed the thought into him and felt it suffuse his blood.

_Comply._

Parvis sighed and melted against him, the tension of his muscles going slack, his mouth going soft and sweet. He swayed, doll-like, as Strife kissed him, his hands resting uselessly on the floor.

He always had to make things _difficult._

Strife let a second thought join the first, braiding them together, breathing them through Parvis's lips and letting them mingle in his lungs.

_Love me,_ he thought, _and comply._

The limp fingers twitched, and his tongue brushed Strife's. He pushed harder, clutching the hair at the back of Parvis's head to keep himself from toppling the other man to the floor.

_Love me, and comply._

And Parvis, like a wind-up toy set loose, jerked into motion, bringing his hands up to Strife's waist, leaning into the kiss, drinking the thoughts from Strife's lips like fine wine. A warmth ignited in Strife's chest, the intoxicating rush of power, and he pushed even harder, drowning Parvis as he filled his lungs with his commandments.

_Love me, and comply._

Parvis whimpered, clutching at him, gasping, trembling. Strife let him breathe, moving to bite his neck, pushing him to the floor and pressing him down with the weight of his body. He could feel Parvis's pulse fluttering between his lips, and he let the flow of thoughts sweep along with it, pounding through Parvis with every frantic beat of his heart. Parvis wrapped his arms around Strife and dug his fingernails into his back, arching up against him, moaning with helpless adoration. Strife sank his teeth deep in Parvis's neck, made him yelp and squirm, drove the nails of his control into the soft and yielding flesh.

"Please," Parvis whispered. "Oh, God, Rythian, _please."_

Strife went cold.

The power drained out of him, leaving only hollow spaces in its wake. His heart faltered, his breath stalled. His mouth filled with ash and his skin began to crawl. He peeled himself off of Parvis and moved away, half-crawling across the blood-crusted floor.

Parvis lay still, his face drawn with pain, his arms drooping to the floor like wilted flowers. His chest began to heave, and tears squeezed out from the corners of his eyes, and his lips drew back in a grimace. He began to weep, helplessly, screaming with the violence of it. He cracked his head against the floor, and again, and again, digging his fingernails into the stone floor until they broke and bled, until Strife crawled over to him and gathered him into his arms.

_"It hurts,"_ Parvis gasped, clutching at Strife's shirt, his face buried in the other man's shoulder. "Oh, _God,_ it hurts, it _hurts._ It's never stopped, it never stops, it _hurts,_ it _hurts,_ it _hurts. . . ."_

Strife put a hand on the back of his head and pulled him close, his chest aching as Parvis poured out gouts of words onto his shirt.

"I want it to stop," he moaned. "God, I want it to stop, I want it so _bad,_ it's killing me—it's _killing_ me—I want it back, I want to go back, _I want him back."_

Strife swallowed heavily and rested his cheek on Parvis's head, stroking his hair.

"Please," Parvis begged him. "Please, Strife. Make it stop. Please, _God,_ make it stop. . . ."

Sickness filled Strife's stomach, and crawled up his throat; and his bones ached and his blood was acid and his mind was burning.

He pressed his lips to Parvis's hair and let the thought, the _command,_ infuse the mind underneath.

_Be well._

And Parvis sucked in a breath, and shuddered, and pressed against him with a sigh.

Strife held him until he fell asleep.

* * *

 

After a few hours, Strife's back had started to cramp and his legs had gone to sleep, so he settled Parvis on the floor and got up to go take a shower. He felt strangely empty, as he scrubbed the blood from his skin, as he counted the shiny new scars on his abdomen—like he ought to be feeling something, and simply couldn't.

When the water was finally running clear and all the scabby clots had been duly scraped off, Strife dressed and made a pot of coffee. Outside, the sun was just rising. Strife leaned a hip against the kitchen counter and absently ran his fingers over his abdomen. There was a fact staring him in the face that he could not ignore, much as he wanted to.

He had tried to kill himself.

He would, in fact, have _succeeded_ in killing himself if Parvis hadn't intervened. Strife wondered what had tipped him off. Maybe he had felt the surge of power that must have accompanied such a sudden influx of blood. Maybe he'd decided that Strife wasn't going to make it through the first few hours of withdrawal.

Maybe it had been coincidence, and in ninety-nine other parallel universes, Strife had died down there, all alone in the dark.

Considering everything that had happened afterwards, maybe he'd died in this one, too.

The coffee maker coughed and sputtered as it finished percolating, and Strife shook himself. That line of thinking would get him nowhere; the fact was, he was here, he was upright and breathing, and he could work with that.

He drank a cup of coffee, and then another, both black. Sometime around ten in the morning, Parvis came tottering up the stairs, moving stiffly, caked in blood. He kept his eyes on his feet.

"Have you got a shower?" he mumbled.

"First door on the left," Strife told him, jerking a thumb at the hallway.

"'Nks," said Parvis, and shuffled off towards it.

There was a knock on the door. Both Strife and Parvis froze. Strife could feel his nerves tensioning until they _sang._

"Strife?" Nano called. "It's me, Nano. You in there? Only, I thought you'd've come in for apprenticing by now, and I'm a bit worried. . . ."

Strife shot to his feet and whirled towards Parvis. His chair fell over with a clatter, and he cursed. He shoved Parvis towards the nearest door, his heart pounding in terror. Half a second later, Parvis caught on, and scrambled for the hallway.

The next three seconds took an eternity to pass.

Parvis tripped over his own feet. His hands caught Strife's shirt, pulling both of them off balance, leaving them tangled and stumbling.

The door flew open, revealing Nano, silhouetted against the brilliant morning sky. Her eyes widened and widened as she took in the scene—Parvis, covered in blood, frantic and terrified, clutching at Strife; and Strife, unbalanced and pale—and she drew in a breath too deep for anything but a scream.

And the command shot from Strife's mind like a bullet, propelled by the explosion of sheer, desperate panic.

_COMPLY._

Time resumed its normal pace. Strife and Parvis toppled to the floor. The door swung back on its hinges, not quite clicking closed. For nearly five seconds, all Strife could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. The thought still burned in his mind, like a live wire laid across his skull. Slowly, he picked himself up and tottered to the door. With a shaking hand, he grasped the knob and tugged it open.

Nano stood, swaying slightly, her eyes dull, her face slack. At her side, one of her fingers twitched.

Her trigger finger, in fact.

Strife swallowed heavily, then stood aside. His head was starting to ache from the prolonged vehemence of the thought.

_Comply._

"Come in," he croaked.

Motions slow and uncertain, Nano came inside. Strife shut the door behind her. He still had that hollow feeling, the tin-can fragility of numbness. His sinuses were starting to prickle, and he was sure his nose was going to start bleeding at any minute.

Parvis was staring at him in abject horror.

"Strife," he whispered. "What've you done?"

"She would've . . . killed you," Strife said. It was difficult to speak while holding his focus on Nano, on keeping her still and quiet. There was a pressure building at the front of his skull, like a hand pressing in on his brain. Nano's finger twitched again, more definitively.

"So she would've killed me, so _what?"_ Parvis hissed. He clambered to his feet. "Strife, _stop,_ stop doing this to her!"

"She'll kill us _both,"_ Strife told him, gritting his teeth. Something warm trickled out of his nose. His vision was starting to blur. He put the heel of his hand against his temple, wincing. The pressure on his brain was getting worse, developing into a slow and steady pounding.

"Fine!" Parvis said. "So she'll kill us both! _Stop!"_

"I . . . can't," Strife said. The pounding in his head was becoming so intense he was having trouble breathing. Nano's whole arm was twitching now, moving in uncoordinated jerks, her fist trying to clench. Her jaw had tightened, and some of the light had returned to her eyes.

Strife's other nostril started leaking blood.

"For _fuck's_ sake," Parvis snarled, and stormed over to Strife, and drove a fist into his gut so hard it knocked all the breath out of him.

Strife crumpled, wheezing, and Nano went for him like a tiger. Parvis only just managed to catch her around the waist before she clawed Strife's eyes out, and she turned on him upon the instant, screaming with fury, thrashing in his grasp. There were tears streaming down her face, and she was shrieking like a banshee, fighting tooth and nail to free herself. She clocked Parvis in the ear with her elbow, and his grip faltered, and she wriggled free. She darted to the kitchen counter and snatched up a knife, pressing her back to the wall, the tip of the blade drawing bright squiggles in the air as she trembled. Her eyes darted between Strife and Parvis, wild with terror. Her breath came in short gasps, whistling in her throat.

"Stay back!" she warned, her voice cracking. "You, both of you, you _stay back!"_

Slowly, Parvis raised his hands. His face was calm, composed, despite the blood and the quickly-forming bruises.

"All right," he said. "We'll stay over here."

The tip of the knife snapped over to point at Strife.

"He was in my head! You keep him out of my head!"

"I know," said Parvis. "If he does it again, I promise you, I will knock him out."

The knife darted back to Parvis.

"What've you done?" Nano demanded. "What've you done to him?"

"Saved his life, mainly," said Parvis.

Strife started to get up. Parvis kicked him.

"Stay down," he muttered. "Someone will have heard."

"Yeah," said Nano. "Yeah! Someone _will_ have heard!"

"That's right," said Parvis, keeping his voice level. "We'll just wait for them. All right? We'll just wait, and no one will get hurt."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Strife hissed. "They'll kill you on sight!"

"If you're lucky," Parvis retorted, "they'll kill you, too."

An old panic came swarming to life in Strife's chest.

Darkness. Cold. Sweet words and heavy chains.

If he was lucky, they would kill him.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Zoey lay with her head on Fiona's chest, listening to her heartbeat. The covers were heaped on the floor at the foot of the bed, and the ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. Fiona's hand rested on Zoey's back, drawing small circles on the bare skin.

"What's the verdict?" she inquired, a smile in her voice.

"I think you're probably alive," Zoey told her seriously.

"Oh, well, _that's_ a relief. I'd hate to think you've had to spend all this time snuggling a corpse. It'd be a bit awkward for everyone involved."

Zoey poked her in the side. Fiona twitched and squeaked.

"Definitely alive," Zoey said, smiling to herself.

Fiona lifted her head and kissed Zoey's hair. "You're not a _real_ doctor," she said, "are you?"

Zoey wrapped her arms around Fiona's middle and squeezed.

"I'm a super-real doctor. I did all the school and everything. I'm a genius."

"Of course, silly me, how could I have forgotten," said Fiona. "Maybe you could help me with something, then."

Zoey lifted her head and shot a suspicious look up at Fiona.

"Oh?" she said.

"Yeah, yeah, definitely. It's just, there's this girl, right? And every time I'm around her, my poor little heart just goes _pitter-pat._ It's tragic, really. Is there any sort of cure?"

Zoey nodded gravely. "Ah yes, I've heard of this one. Read about it extensively, of course, in all my medical books. At medical school. Which I went to, because I'm a medicine. Doctor. I'm Dr. Medicine."

Fiona was fighting down a smile so big it was making her whole face glow.

"Really?" she said. "That's fascinating, doctor. But can you help me?"

"It sounds like what you're describing is a bad case of being really really gay," Zoey told her.

Fiona burst out laughing. "Oh, no!" she cried. "Oh, doctor, is it a rare condition?"

"No, no, it's very common," Zoey said. "I've got it myself."

"You _have?_ Oh, there's hope for me after all!"

"Yes, yes," Zoey said gruffly. She wiggled around to lie on top of Fiona and kissed her. "But it's very serious. I'm afraid you'll have to take a daily dose of fifty kisses every day forever."

"Chronic, is it?" Fiona asked sardonically.

"And acute," said Zoey.

"You're acute," she returned.

Zoey snorted and nuzzled Fiona's neck. Fiona carded a hand back through her sea-tousled hair, resting her other palm between Zoey's shoulder-blades.

"There's some other options for treatment," Zoey told her, mumbling into the soft skin of her neck.

"Mm?" said Fiona, tilting her head away slightly to give her a better angle. Zoey kissed the skin so kindly presented to her.

"Mm. Like lots of gay sex."

"Oh!" Fiona cried, giggling. "Is there some combination of treatments that works best, I wonder? My heart does go _pitter-pat_ so terribly. It's doing it right now, in fact!"

Zoey gasped.

"Oh no! A hundred cc's of boobs, quick!" And she brought a hand up and squeezed Fiona's breast like it was a bicycle horn.

Fiona laughed so hard that Zoey had to get off of her to allow her to fold up and wheeze. When she'd finally managed to breathe again, Zoey snuggled up to her back and wrapped her arms around her waist. She brushed the hair off of the back of Fiona's neck with her nose and kissed the skin underneath.

"I love you," Fiona said warmly, her voice still bright with laughter.

"I love you, too," Zoey told her. "Thank you."

"For?"

Zoey shrugged. "Y'know. Everything."

Fiona laid her hands over Zoey's and squeezed gently.

"Thank you, too," she murmured. "For everything."

"Yeah, anytime," said Zoey.

Fiona laughed again, and if Zoey could have bottled the sound, she was sure she could have cured all the ills of the world.

When the silence had stretched long and warm, Fiona sighed, bowing her head forward. Zoey resisted the temptation to kiss her neck again.

"Have we _got_ to go back?" she asked quietly.

"Well, I mean, you've got a job," Zoey pointed out. After a moment, she added, "And . . . so do I."

"You're _sure_ we can't just run away together? I'm sure we could figure something out. Sell tacos out of a stall or something."

Zoey frowned. "You know how to make tacos?"

"No, but I could learn. All I'm saying is . . . have we _got_ to go back?"

She thought about it for a long time, weighing everything that could go wrong against everything that could go so wonderfully, beautifully right.

"I think . . . we really do," she murmured. "I can't run off without saying anything. Again. I just . . . I don't think I'd be able to live with myself."

Fiona sighed again. "Yeah," she said. "I can understand that."

Zoey kissed her neck.

"But . . . maybe soon, we really _can_ pick up and go and just be me and you and us. All the time. We could, like, move. Instead of running away. I think that'd be better, probably. A lot less sad and worryful and guilty."

Fiona chuckled. "Okay," she said. "I'll look forward to that, then."

"I mean, we're staying until tomorrow afternoon anyways, so really you can look forward to now until then."

Fiona rolled over in Zoey's arms. She snuggled up close and tangled their legs together. Zoey pressed her forehead to Fiona's chest and breathed deeply, luxuriating in the smell of her, sea-salt and cheap soap.

"I like now," Fiona said.

"Yeah," Zoey sighed. "Me, too."

* * *

 

The compound was dark by the time they got to it, with the sole exception of the magic tent. Some, but not all, of the lights were on inside, giving it a faint orange glow in the darkness. As the two of them approached, Zoey's heart beat faster and faster, and her stomach grew more and more queasy.

"Fi," she said quietly. They stopped just outside the tent, and Zoey stared at the closed flap, willing it to disclose only good news.

"Zoey?"

"I think. . . . Um. If something's really, _really_ wrong, if he's . . . done something. Awful. Um. Please don't—please don't hurt him, Fi."

Fiona was quiet for a moment.

"Unless it's absolutely necessary," she allowed. "I'll try to stay hands-off."

"Okay. Um. But—but if something _is_ really really wrong, um."

"Yeah?"

"Don't let him hurt you, either."

"I won't," Fiona said, her voice steely. "And I _definitely_ won't let him hurt you."

Zoey squeezed her hand. "Thank you," she said. "I mean, maybe nothing's wrong, and it's all okay, but I'm—y'know, just in case."

"I know," said Fiona. "Here's hoping nothing's wrong."

"Yeah. Really, really hoping."

Fiona looked down at Zoey and nudged her with a shoulder. "Ready?" she asked.

Zoey took a steadying breath and nodded, just once.

"Okay," she said, and the two of them pushed inside the tent.

Rythian was sitting hunched over the table at the back of the tent, head bowed, hands resting palm-up on the wood. His back was to them, but Zoey was struck with a sudden and absolute certainty that there was something terribly amiss. There was a pair of pliers next to Rythian's hand, and scattered white pebbles on the table and floor.

Pebbles with little strings trailing from one side of them. Pebbles smeared with red. Pebbles that, upon another second of inspection, had a very distinctive shape.

Pebbles that were not pebbles at all.

"Rythian?" Zoey said, her voice a bare whisper.

"I wasn't sorry enough," he said dreamily. There was blood on his hands. There was blood on the table. There was blood on the pliers. "I wasn't sorry enough for what I made you do. But I think I'm sorry enough now. I made sure. Ahahah. I made _sure_ this time."

Fiona's hand tightened on Zoey's. She backed up half a step, her body tense.

"What've you done?" Zoey croaked, trembling and sick.

Slowly, Rythian turned, resting his arm on the back of his chair, lifting unfocused eyes to look at her. He was pale, with deep bags under his eyes. There was blood drenching his chin and lips, as though it had poured from his mouth. His lips pulled into a languorous, mad grin.

All of his teeth had been replaced with serrated black arrowheads, dripping with his blood.

Fiona cursed. Zoey clapped a hand over her own mouth, her stomach heaving, her skin crawling. Her mouth ached in sympathy, making her even sicker.

Rythian flowed to his feet, spreading his hands, laughing to himself, crying.

"No one will ever think I'm not a monster, now," he said. "No one will ever mistake me for anything else. Hah. Isn't it lovely, Zoey? Isn't it _horrible?_ Ahahah. Even _I_ couldn't make anyone love me now."

He took a step forward, and Fiona moved in front of Zoey, steel in her bones and in her muscles and in her voice.

"Stay _back,"_ she snapped.

Rythian laughed, swaying where he stood.

"See?" he said. "You see? She knows. She's _always_ known. Do you see it now, Zoey? Do you see what I _am?"_

"Oh, God," Zoey whispered, still pressing her palm to her lips. "Oh, God, Rythian, no."

He barked out a sharp laugh and staggered drunkenly back to his chair, falling into it as though his legs had given out.

"I wasn't sorry enough," he repeated, then laughed again. "But I am now. I fixed it. Ahahah. I _fixed_ it."

"We're leaving," Fiona said quietly, starting to back away. "C'mon, Zo. We're leaving."

Rythian trembled where he sat, alternating sobs and laughter with each breath, mirth and pain chasing each other across his face. He curled in on himself, shrinking down until he was just a giggling ball of misery.

Carefully, Zoey extracted her hand from Fiona's grasp and ducked around her.

"Zoey—" Fiona warned, reaching out for her, but Zoey didn't stop. She crossed to Rythian and knelt in front of him. She reached up and took his face in her hands. He shuddered and laughed breathlessly.

"Not again," he said, sounding vaguely annoyed.

"You are not a monster," Zoey told him.

He shook his head. "Hah. How can you say that?"

"Zoey," Fiona said. "Come away from him."

"Listen to her, Zoey," Rythian said thinly. "You never listen to her. How many times has she told you to leave me? Ahahah." His voice dropped to a twisted snarl. "How _many_ times?"

"Rythian," Zoey said, though she was trembling, though her heart hammered in her chest. "You are _not_ a monster."

"I made you love me," he said. "I could do it again. Hahah. I could do it again, and never stop. I could make Fiona into a little doll. I could make her stand so nice and still while I slit her pretty little _throat—"_

"That's it," Fiona snarled, starting forward.

"Like this," Rythian chirped.

Fiona stopped in her tracks, swaying. Zoey gripped Rythian's face harder and shook him.

"Rythian," she insisted. "Look at me."

Slowly, he raised his eyes—bloodshot, unfocused, ruby red and weeping.

"You. Are _not._ A monster," Zoey said, barely breathing through her fear. "So please, _please_ stop acting like one!"

Some clarity returned to his gaze, and his eyes darted over her face, taking in every facet of her expression. He reached out a trembling hand and touched her cheek.

"She will never love you like I do," he murmured.

Zoey nodded emphatically. "Good!" she said.

For seven breathless seconds, she watched a slew of emotions chase their way across Rythian's face—hurt, sadness, rage, regret—and then he lowered his eyes and his hand and Fiona hurried over and dragged Zoey away from him.

"Please leave," he said softly. "Please don't come back."

"With _pleasure,"_ Fiona snarled.

"Fi," Zoey said. "We can't leave him here."

"Like _hell_ we can't!"

"He'll hurt someone," she said, her voice almost too quiet to be heard.

"Well—well—well what are _we_ supposed to do about that?" Fiona demanded, her eyes continually darting back to Rythian.

"I um . . . was hoping you might have some ideas?"

Fiona set her jaw. "Have you got any rope?" she asked.

* * *

 

Rythian had stayed still and quiet while Fiona had bound him hand and foot, despite the fact that she cinched the knots far too tight, in Zoey's opinion. His hands were lashed together behind his back, his legs tied at the ankles and above the knees. She'd also tied him to one of the tent poles, looping the rope around his chest, for good measure.

"I'm really sorry about this," Zoey told him, kneeling on the sand near him. "I promise it's only for a little while. And then we'll be right back, and we'll get you help, and it's all going to be okay. All right? Please say something."

Fiona yanked on the knots around his ankles, and he winced. He said nothing, leaving his head bowed and his eyes downcast.

"Are you really, like, _super_ sure that's not too tight?" Zoey asked Fiona, worrying the hem of her shirt.

"I'm not sure it's tight _enough,"_ Fiona replied. "But I suppose it'll have to do. Come on. Even this time of night, we should be able to find a policeman or something."

"O-oh," said Zoey. "But, it's just, he hasn't _actually_ hurt anyone. Um. Except himself. So maybe—maybe not? With the police?"

Fiona folded her arms. "I don't see that we've got many other options, Zo."

"Well . . . I mean, morning isn't _too_ far off, we could just, I dunno, wait around for a bit—"

Simultaneously, Rythian and Fiona said, _"No."_

Both Fiona and Zoey turned to stare at Rythian.

"No," Rythian repeated quietly. "You need to leave now."

"But—" said Zoey.

Fiona grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, then started dragging her to the door.

"Fi, no, we can't—"

"We _are,"_ Fiona told her sharply.

"What if he hurts someone?" Zoey cried, heart tapping out a staccato rhythm against her ribcage.

"Then it won't be us!" Fiona retorted.

Zoey's eyes filled with tears. She jerked her arm out of Fiona's grasp and stopped in her tracks. Fiona rounded on her, exasperated.

"Zoey—" she began.

"You don't mean that," she said quietly. "Please, please tell me you don't _mean_ that."

"Zoey," Fiona said, putting her hands on her shoulders. "I promised you I would protect you. I promised I would protect _me._ That's what I'm doing. We're going to get _help._ But I'm not sticking around and waiting for it to come! It isn't _safe,_ Zoey, _he_ isn't safe!"

"He wouldn't hurt me," Zoey whispered.

"Yes," Rythian said softly. "I would."

Zoey's body went cold and hollow. The tears in her eyes spilled over and crawled down her cheeks. Her lip started to tremble, and her breath hitched.

"You—" she began.

"Leave, Zoey," he said. His voice was thin and tired; defeated.

"You heard him, Zo," said Fiona. "We're leaving."

Moving with rusted joints and brittle bones, Zoey walked out of the tent. Fiona put an arm around her shoulders, and Zoey sagged under the weight of it. They kept walking; Zoey had no idea where to, or for how long.

Eventually she found herself sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair in a poorly-lit wooden room. Fiona was talking to someone—Zoey couldn't bring herself to lift her head to see who. She was staring down at her hands, clasped and pale and trembling.

The vision of Rythian's ruined face kept swimming up in her vision, and his words kept ringing in her ears.

_I wasn't sorry enough._

She shivered and hunched in on herself. The cut on her palm itched, and she rubbed at it absently.

She wondered how long it would be before she was like Rythian, bloodied and monstrous and mad.

With a supreme effort of will, she managed to raise her eyes long enough to glance at Fiona. She had her back to Zoey and was speaking vehemently to a tired-looking officer. Zoey let her gaze fall again. She thought of the weekend at the beach—salt in their hair and sand on their skin and the sweet taste of each other's lips—and she allowed herself to cry for it, allowed herself to mourn those days.

She waited until Fiona was in the middle of another tirade, and then she got up and snuck out into the night, shutting the door silently behind her.

It had been lovely while it lasted.

* * *

 

"You came back," he said, without lifting his head.

"I always do," she replied.

"Why?" he asked. "You could have left. You could have gone away and never looked back. I thought you might. I thought Fiona might take you."

"She'll probably come looking for me, yeah," Zoey said.

"And will you run away again? You must know by now that you can't have us both."

"Yeah," Zoey whispered, unable to speak any louder. "I know."

Rythian was still for a very long time, and then he started laughing. It began low, but rose in pitch and violence until he was gasping for breath, cracking his head against the tent pole behind him; then it wound down again, leaving him hiccuping.

"Oh, _Zoey,"_ he breathed. "Why did you come back?"

"Because I'm your apprentice," she said. "And I've got to look after you."

He paused, tipping his head to the side and considering this as though tasting a fine wine.

"No," he said. "I mean it. Why did you come back?"

She fidgeted, picking at the scab on her palm, and finally admitted, "Because . . . I got cut. And—and if I'm going to end up like you—"

Rythian looked up at her, his eyes full of fire.

"Is that what you think will happen?" he asked softly.

"It . . . happened to you," she said. Breathing was difficult, with his attention so heavy on her.

"Zoey," he said. "You're an idiot."

Her jaw dropped, a jab of pain speared her heart. She floundered for a moment, struggling to process the words and the meaning behind them.

"Wh—what?" she managed.

"You're an idiot," Rythian repeated.

"Excuse _me,_ I—I am not! Why would you even _say_ something like that? That's so—so _mean!"_

"Yes," said Rythian. "That little cut you have, that hasn't done anything to you. I even told you so at the time, didn't I? Of course, I don't blame you for thinking it might, but _honestly,_ Zoey, even if it had. Why would you _ever_ come _back?"_

"Because you _need_ me!" she cried, the honesty leaping through her lips without bothering to consult her brain. She clapped her hands over her mouth, taking a stuttering step back.

Rythian looked at her for a long moment, and then smiled.

"No, Zoey," he murmured. "And here I'll let you in on a little secret. You came back because I _wanted_ you to."

She gulped, her stomach shriveling. "What?" she croaked.

"Would you ever have left Fiona if you loved her?" he asked. "No. So I made you stop. Would you have come back to me if you hadn't been frightened? No. So I made you fear. Are you beginning to understand, Zoey? _You should have run."_

"Stop," she whispered, trembling where she stood. She was going to be sick. "Stop, stop."

"No," he said. "Not this time."

She drew a sharp breath to scream, to cry out for help, and it died in her throat. Her thoughts went dark and soft, and the pounding of her heart settled to a lazy rhythm. The tension bled out of her, leaving her slumped and swaying.

"Good girl, Zoey," Rythian murmured. "Would you please untie me?"

There was some part of her, gibbering in terror, that was aware that this was not the reasonable, harmless request that it seemed. The rest of her shuffled over, knelt next to Rythian, and began tugging clumsily at the knots around his ankles.

"Wrists first, please," he said, his voice gentle.

She turned her attention to his hands. His fingertips were blue, the ropes had been cinched so tight. Zoey fumbled with them, struggling to make any headway against Fiona's knots.

"I'm not sure I can get it," Zoey mumbled. Her lips were numb for some reason, her jaw stiff.

"It's all right, Zoey," Rythian assured her. "Maybe you can find something to cut them off with."

"Oh. Right, yeah," she said, and looked around the room. Her vision was dull, and she rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear it.

"On the table," Rythian said.

Zoey got up and shuffled over to the table. After nearly thirty seconds, she spotted the knife lying in plain sight and picked it up, carrying it over to Rythian. As she started sawing at the knots behind his back, he leaned his head against the tent pole and sighed.

"Have you had a good vacation, Zoey?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "It was lovely."

"Good," Rythian said. "Because I think it's about time you got back to being my apprentice. . . ."

 


	15. Chapter 15

Less than five minutes after Nano had first opened the door, Lomadia kicked it in. Nilesy was right on her heels, and Sips was behind him.

Lomadia took one glance at the scene and threw herself at Parvis sword-first. Parvis shut his eyes.

Strife's body moved without asking him for permission. He heard Nano yell out a warning, and then he slammed into Lomadia, bowling her over. She kept hold of the sword, but her head cracked against the floor and she cried out sharply. Strife tried to wrest the blade from her hands, but someone grabbed him by the arms and hauled him off before he could get it.

"The fuck is _wrong_ with you, man?" Sips demanded, his hands bruising Strife's biceps.

"He didn't _do_ anything!" Strife cried frantically.

"Like hell he didn't," Nilesy snarled. He had his own blade pressed to Parvis's throat, pinning him to the wall. "Got into your head, has he?"

"Both of them," Nano said quickly. "Both of them! He was in my head, Strife was in my _head!"_

Sips's hands tightened yet further. Strife kicked out, thrashing, but his grip was like iron.

Cold, cold iron, heavy on his bare skin. His heart stuttered.

_"Oy!"_ someone cried from the doorway. Smiffy barged past Sips and shoved Nilesy away from Parvis, moving to stand between them. "What the fuck're you doing?"

"Smiff, _don't_ get fuckin' _involved!"_ Trott's voice came floating in from outside.

"He's doing blood magic," Nano said. "He's done something to Strife, he's—"

_"Shut up!"_ Strife snarled at her. Sips yanked his arms back and nearly dislocated both his shoulders. All the air went out of Strife as panic flooded his lungs.

Nilesy was standing guard over Lomadia, who was struggling to get her limbs underneath her. She still hadn't let go of her sword. There was blood matting in her hair.

"Well, there's an easy way to settle this," Nilesy growled, "isn't there."

"You fuckin' touch him, mate, and I'll rip your bloody balls off," Smiffy snapped.

"He tried to _kill_ you three days ago!" Nano cried, her voice shrill.

"Yeah, and he fuckin' didn't, did he?" Smiffy retorted.

"Smiff!" Trott snapped from the doorway. Ross was behind him, towering and grim. "Come out of there right now."

"Fuck off, Trott," Smiffy retorted.

"Come _out_ from there!" Trott insisted, stamping his foot.

"What, and let these stupid fucks lynch Parvis? I don't fuckin' _think_ so."

Lomadia had managed to get to her feet, though she was swaying.

"You can go with him," she said darkly.

Strife kicked Sips repeatedly in the shin. Sips wrenched his arms again, and the left one popped out of its socket with a firework burst of pain. Strife screamed and went still, gasping for breath, the pain clawing up his neck and into his head, throbbing with the frantic pounding of his heart.

"Yeah?" Smiffy challenged Lomadia. "You wanna fuckin' go, mate?"

"'Scuse me," someone said mildly from the doorway. "Just—hi, yeah, 'scuse me."

Lomadia opened her mouth to reply, and then paused. She turned her head and looked at the door. Nilesy followed her gaze, and then so did Smiffy. Nano pried her eyes off of Parvis, and Sips's grip loosened ever so slightly. Although the movement sent rivulets of liquid pain streaming through his shoulder, Strife turned his head.

Zoey was standing just inside, her eyebrows raised in mild surprise. Behind her, Fiona had her arms folded and one hip cocked. Trott and Ross were standing to one side, looking dubiously at each other.

"Hi," Zoey said. She came in and sat down at the kitchen table, the chair's legs squealing on the floor as she pulled it out and scooted it back in. Fiona sat in the chair next to her and clasped her hands on the table.

"Smells like coffee," she remarked.

"Mm!" said Zoey. She turned to Strife. He could see the fear hiding in her eyes, in the paleness of her face, but her voice never faltered. "Strife, is it all right if Fiona and me have some coffee?"

Strife blinked slowly. "Uh," he croaked, fighting to think through the pain and the fear. "S-sure."

"Great! Thanks."

"I'll get it," Fiona offered.

"Ooh, thanks, you're the best."

Fiona got up and went to the coffee maker, which was still half full. Nano retracted her knife as Fiona went by, holding it near her chest instead.

"Parv, you've got lots of blood on you," Zoey said mildly. "Maybe you should go take, like, a shower or something? I'm sure Strife's got one you could use."

Parvis stared at her, bemused.

"You can't just—" Nilesy began.

Zoey looked at him, smiling pleasantly. "Can't what?" she said.

"Can't what?" Fiona echoed, planting one fist on her hip.

"He's gone bad," Lomadia said, her consonants mushy.

"Oh, goodness, you're hurt!" Zoey cried. "Come here, sit down, good grief. I'm sure somebody must have a healing potion or something, ooh, that looks really bad."

"There's . . . some in the basement," Strife said. His head was spinning.

"Fantastic," said Fiona. "Shall I get them, then?"

"No, you got the coffee, I'll go," Zoey offered. She glanced at Parvis. "And really, please go take a shower, Parv. It looks awful. You're not hurt, are you?"

"I . . . no," Parvis managed, his voice thin.

"Good! Off you go."

"R-right," he said. Eyes wide, looking at least as stunned as Lomadia, Parvis shuffled off to the bathroom. Zoey nodded firmly.

"Great, now for those potions. I'll be right back, nobody go anywhere!"

And she flitted off towards the basement in a swirl of rainbow. Fiona sat down at the table and started drinking her coffee.

Slowly, Sips let go of Strife's arms. Strife sagged to the floor, putting a hand gingerly to the wounded joint. Nilesy helped Lomadia to another chair and stood next to her, fussing.

"All right," Smiffy said, folding his arms. "Has anyone got _any_ idea what the fuck's just happened?"

"Zoey happened," Fiona answered, smiling faintly. "She does that from time to time."

"Grand explanation," Nilesy intoned. "Very informative."

"It's called defusing the situation. You might look into it sometime."

Fiona took another sip of her coffee. She glanced at Strife, taking in the awkward angle at which he held his arm, the paleness of his face.

"Hurt much?" she asked.

Delicately, he nodded.

"Good," Nano spat.

"Really?" Fiona said. "Is that really how you're going to go about this?"

"He was in my _head,"_ Nano hissed, glaring at Strife.

"Was he?" Fiona said mildly, and took a sip of coffee. "Good thing he's not anymore, isn't it."

"How are you so fucking _calm_ about this?" Nano demanded.

"I've seen worse," Fiona said.

"Lookin' like it's gonna _get_ worse real quick," Sips grumbled. "Could've fixed the whole freakin' thing by now. But _nooo,_ everybody's gotta be all wishy-washy about it."

"Wishy-washy?" Fiona asked, arching a brow. "I'm sorry, could you point out the wishy-washy bits? Because what Zoey and I are doing, as of right now, is making sure the right decisions get made. As opposed to murdering people on circumstantial evidence."

"Circumstantial?" Nano cried. _"He was in my head!"_

"Which _he,_ precisely?" Fiona asked.

"Strife!"

"Ah, of course, which explains why you've all decided to kill Parvis."

There was a brief moment of silence. Fiona took another sip of coffee.

"Nobody said we couldn't kill 'em both," Sips pointed out.

"What _is_ it with you people and _murder?"_ Smiffy demanded, exasperated.

"It's the only thing they know that works," Fiona said.

"Smiffy," Ross called from the doorway, "don't you think we ought to go?"

"You can run off if you like," Smiffy said. "I'd like to know what the fuck is going on here."

"Yeah, and I'd like to not _die_ today," Trott said. "Will you _please_ get out of there, you massive wankstain?"

Smiffy glared at him. "What'd you just call me?" he demanded.

"Called you a massive wankstain, mate," Ross said helpfully.

"If _that's_ all the fuckin' respect I'm gonna get, I'll just stay in here with the crazy people, thanks."

"Honestly, it's probably better if you go," Fiona told him. "Nothing personal. It's just not your fight and you don't know what you're talking about."

Smiffy sputtered for a moment, then folded his arms and lifted his chin.

"Fine. Y'know what, fine. Try to save somebody's fuckin' life, this is all the thanks you get. C'mon mates, we're leavin' Crazy Town."

"Since when was this _your_ idea?" Ross demanded.

Smiffy stalked to the door, and the three of them moved off together, bickering.

Just then, Zoey came hurrying back up the stairs with her arms full of potions. She dropped them all on the table and beckoned to Strife.

"Come on, I'm sure you can still walk," she said. "Come sit down, the floor looks awfully uncomfy."

As though his bones were made of glass, Strife picked himself up and hobbled to the table. He lowered himself into the last empty chair, between Fiona and Lomadia. Nilesy moved over to Lomadia's other side so he wouldn't be standing next to Strife.

"Not sure it'll fix the dislocation," Strife said, keeping his eyes firmly on the potions.

"Oh, that's fine," said Fiona, and before Strife could react, she had reached out and firmly grasped his shoulder.

"No—" he gasped, but too late. She yanked on his arm, and he cried out as pain seared through him, and then the joint clicked back into place and the pain faded to a dull background ache. He glared at her, and she smiled.

"Now it should help," she said.

Begrudgingly, keeping his left arm close to his chest, Strife picked up one of the potion bottles and uncapped it. Lomadia was already sipping one, and the clarity was returning to her expression. Strife downed the bottle in one long chug.

Immediately, the pain in his shoulder began to recede. He sat still until it had gone entirely, then rolled his shoulder experimentally. It was sore, but seemed to be in working order again.

"Better?" Zoey asked, her voice hopeful.

"Uh," said Strife. "Yeah. Um. What . . . are you doing here?"

"Oh, well, Fi heard the screaming, so we came as quick as we could. Just in time, apparently."

"Just in time for _what?"_ Nano snarled. "Because from where I'm sitting, you were a bit late."

"Bit _early,"_ Nilesy muttered.

"Well, nobody's dead," Zoey mused. "So we've at least got here in time to stop anybody getting killed. That's something! I'd say that counts for just in time. Wouldn't you, Fi?"

"Mm," said Fiona, nodding. "Have some coffee. Nano, d'you want coffee?"

_"No_ I don't want any goddamn coffee!" she cried. "Why won't any of you _listen_ to me? _He was in my head!"_

"I'm sorry," Zoey told her. "I really am sorry. I know it's awful. It's really awful and it's scary and I'm sorry it's happened. We'll figure out what to do, we really will, I promise."

"You don't understand," Nano growled.

"I really do," Zoey said quietly.

"She really does," Fiona confirmed, her face and voice both stony.

"He's been doing blood magic! He's _just_ like Rythian was!"

Strife flinched, but said nothing, clenching his jaw.

"No," Zoey said, her tone unchanged. "He's really not."

Slowly, he raised his eyes to her. She was looking steadily at Nano, who was crying and trembling.

"He was _in_ my _head,"_ Nano repeated, her voice hoarse.

"I know," said Zoey. "But you can leave now, Nano. It's okay. Fi can take you home and you don't have to stick around anymore. It's okay, really."

Nano's eyes darted to Strife. He looked away quickly.

"But," she said. "But, he'll. . . ."

"Die before he gets three steps?" Lomadia filled in for her.

Nano swallowed, then slowly edged towards Fiona, keeping the knife clutched to her chest. Fiona got up and offered her hand; Nano took it, clutching tightly.

"I'll stick around at the noodle bar," Fiona told Zoey. "Whenever you need me."

"Mm," said Zoey, nodding. "Take care, okay? And Nano, I'm really, really super sorry. If there's anything I can do, please let me know. Okay?"

"Fine," said Nano. She and Fiona left. Fiona kept herself squarely between Nano and Strife the entire time.

Strife felt every eye in the room turn to him, pair by pair.

"How _could_ you?" Lomadia asked quietly, her voice full of venom. _"You,_ of all people."

He shrugged, his face contorted with misery.

"Well, if Teeth McGee's got into his head—" Nilesy began at a sneer.

"Stop," Strife croaked. "He has nothing to do with this."

"Uh," said Sips. "The guy was _covered_ in blood."

"Mine," Strife said.

There was a moment of silence.

_"Why?"_ Nilesy prompted tensely.

Strife just shrugged again. There were some things he simply couldn't say out loud.

"Strife," Zoey said, reaching across the table. He looked at her hands, but did not take them. "Okay, so, here's what I'd like to do, if it's all right with you. Once Parv gets out of the shower, I think we should all go down to your altar and break it. Okay? And all the knives and orbs and everything else too. Get rid of all of it. Team effort, sort of thing. D'you think you could do that with us?"

Strife's heart stuttered in panic.

_Go for Sips,_ something whispered to him. _Set him on Nilesy. While they're distracted, run. Start over somewhere else. They won't chase you. Come back when you're stronger. Come back when you can kill Kirin. Set them all free and make them love you. It'll be easy._

His hands clenched on the table, his knuckles turning white.

"Strife?" Lomadia said sharply.

"Shush," Zoey scolded. "It's not easy."

_Wait for Parvis, if you have to,_ the little voice whispered. _He'll help you. He needs you. When they're distracted. Let them destroy your altar, it doesn't matter, we can make a new one. Take him with you and run. They can't hurt you if they can't catch you. Come back stronger. Come back with_ _help._

"I—" Strife said quietly. He was shaking all over, sick to his stomach.

_Run while you still can, Strife. Before they throw you to Kirin. Before they destroy you. Before_ _ he _ _destroys you. Trust me._

He saw Nilesy's hand tighten on his sword. Sips took a slow step forward, his hands open at his sides, his eyes dark and gleaming. Zoey was still looking at him, her eyes full of desperate hope.

Strife bowed his head.

"Okay," he whispered.

_Oh, Strife,_ the voice murmured, and went quiet.

Zoey bowed her head, letting out a long breath.

"Thank you," she said. "Really, really thank you. I promise it'll be worth it. You'll be okay. This is the right thing to do. I just want you to know that, okay? This is good. This is a good thing you're doing. Okay?"

"Okay," he said again.

"I'm really proud of you," she said quietly.

His mouth twitched.

"Thanks," he said.

* * *

 

Parvis stood next to him in the doorway of the altar room, holding his hand. Strife was holding the disassembler in his other hand, his fingers so tight around it that his whole arm ached.

He had watched, impassive, as Zoey and Nilesy and Lomadia and Sips had picked over every last inch of his house and destroyed everything that so much as _looked_ like blood magic—the knife, the unfired clay orb, the two slates he'd painstakingly carved out.

The book.

He'd watched it burn, pages fluttering in their own heat, leather cover shriveling and smoking. He'd watched it burn to ash, and he fought down the pain in his chest, the clawing terror of being cut loose from the only safety net he had, of dangling from threads.

They were gathered in the altar room to watch him break the altar with his own two hands. They were waiting for him to do it with their hands on their swords.

"Strife," Zoey prompted quietly.

Jerking into motion like a machine, Strife approached the altar. Parvis went with him, still holding his hand.

"Is it going to hurt?" he whispered, staring down at the blood swirling at the top of the altar.

"Yes," Parvis said quietly.

Strife nodded.

"Parvis," he said. "We're leaving tonight."

Parvis's head turned just a fraction before he stopped it.

"Where?" he asked.

"Let me put it this way," said Strife. "We're gonna need a boat."

Parvis tightened his hand on Strife's.

"We can't," he said. "Strife, we _can't."_

"They're gonna throw us to Kirin and his vampire buddy," Strife said. "If you have any better ideas, I'd love to hear 'em."

"They won't," Parvis said.

"Okay, guys, how about you get on with it?" Sips said, irritated.

"I'm not going back," Strife hissed. "Never again."

"You don't have to!" Parvis told him urgently.

_"I'm not willing to risk it."_

Parvis opened his mouth to say something else, but Strife swung up the disassembler and brought it crashing down onto the altar before he could speak.

There was a terrible _crack,_ and an explosion of blood, and something knocked all the air out of Strife, driving him to his knees, leaving his head spinning and his vision dark.

And he heard a whisper in his ear, in a voice so familiar it sent chills scurrying down his spine.

_Come get me._

 


	16. Chapter 16

Rythian ran his fingers over Zoey's throat, absently trailing blood on her skin. She sat still, her head resting on his chest, her hands folded in her lap. It wasn't precisely an unpleasant sensation, but it made her skin do strange things, like it was trying to pick up and move somewhere else where Rythian wouldn't be touching it anymore.

He'd been doing it for an hour.

"Maybe she isn't coming," he said. "That would be lovely, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," said Zoey.

Rythian smiled to himself and sighed. "Really I wish she'd hurry up. I don't have all the time in the world. Not yet, anyway."

Zoey said nothing. Some sort of thought was trying to crystallize in the back of her mind, and she was sure that if she disturbed its formation, she would never get it back. The continuing feeling of Rythian running his fingers over her neck was making it difficult.

"What're you going to do?" she asked eventually. "When Fiona gets here."

He shrugged. "I haven't decided. Kill her. Keep her. I don't particularly care. It depends on how much of a nuisance she makes herself."

"Oh," said Zoey, something cold settling into her chest.

Rythian kissed the top of her head.

"I've always hated her, you know," he murmured into her hair. His fingers had stopped their incessant movement and were resting across her throat, only touching lightly but positioned with the promise of injury.

Zoey swallowed and said nothing.

"From the moment I met her," he went on. "She took you from me. And now I've taken you back. I wonder if she'll be as understanding as I was. Somehow I doubt it. Do you think she'll try to kill me, Zoey? That would be . . . hah. Entertaining."

Zoey fidgeted. Rythian's hand tightened on her throat by just the barest fraction.

"Maybe she won't come," she said.

"Mm," said Rythian. "I'll give her until morning. If she hasn't come by then, we'll get back to work and forget all about her."

She nodded. It sounded reasonable, when he said it like that.

"What kind of work?" she asked.

"Oh, a lot of carving, mostly," he sighed. "I've worked out the schematics all the way up to tier six. I don't think I'll need much more than that. For a while, anyway. And blood. We'll need a lot of blood."

"I . . . I won't have to do the whole . . . blood thing," she said, fidgeting again. "W-will I?"

Rythian's hand tightened by another fraction, and he pressed his lips to the top of her head, and the crawly feeling in her stomach evaporated.

"It's only blood, Zoey," he murmured.

"Right," she said. "Okay. Yeah, that's not so bad."

"That's right," he said. "I'm glad you understand."

Zoey nodded, then yawned massively. Her eyes were heavy, and Rythian was as soft a pillow as any she could hope for.

"I'm . . . sort of tired," she said.

"You've had a very long day," Rythian agreed. "Would you like to go to bed?"

"Mm. Yeah. I think I'd like that."

Rythian hesitated, then stood slowly, helping her to her feet. She yawned again.

"Zoey," he said quietly, his hands on her shoulders.

"Yeah?"

"Are you . . . happy?" he asked.

She raised her eyes, meeting his. There was concern on his face, mild but genuine. She smiled and patted one of his hands.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, 'f course I am."

He relaxed, and his face settled into a smile. He pulled her close and kissed her temple.

"Good," he said. "Now go to sleep. You're apprenticing again first thing in the morning."

"Okay," she said. After a moment, she added, "It'd be easier if you weren't still hugging me."

Reluctantly, he let her go. She patted his hand again, then tottered off, yawning still. She didn't even bother to change into her pajamas before she crawled into bed, and she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Her dreams were full of nameless, formless terrors, gnawing at her with sharp-edged black teeth.

* * *

 

Zoey woke up with her skin crawling, as though she'd lain down in an anthill. The air felt thick and sticky, and her head was full of ooze. She got up slowly, rubbing at her throat. Her hand came away speckled with dried blood. Her stomach churned, and she wiped her hand on her trousers.

There was, she was sure, something pressing she had to do, although she couldn't quite remember what it was. She had to go somewhere, meet someone—but she couldn't remember who or where, and certainly not why. It was as though someone had wrung her brain like a wet washcloth and all the important information had been squeezed out.

Moving on autopilot, she started a pot of coffee. That seemed like a safe bet, at least. Maybe she and Rythian could figure it out together over coffee.

As the coffee percolated, so did that thought. It occurred to her that perhaps Rythian was the person she was supposed to be meeting—there _had_ been some talk about apprenticing first thing in the morning, and from the brightness of the light filtering through the tent, it was probably already _last_ thing in the morning. She decided that tardiness would be more forgivable if it came with coffee, and poured out a mug for Rythian before setting off to the magic tent.

The day was hot, the sun blinding, and Zoey had to shade her eyes as she walked across the short expanse of sand to the other tent. When she ducked inside, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness.

As such, her first impression of the nightmare inside was the sound of Rythian sobbing, gasping for breath.

She blinked the stars from her eyes while her insides tried to crawl out. There was blood spattered on the walls, the floor, the canopy. The altar was drenched in it. Rythian was sitting under the table, his knees curled to his chest, rocking desperately back and forth and hyperventilating.

He, too, was covered in blood, his eyes wide and staring and unseeing.

The mug of coffee fell from Zoey's numb fingers. There was a pair of feet poking out from behind the altar, utterly still.

"Rythian?" Zoey croaked.

_"I killed her,"_ he whimpered. "Oh, God, I killed her, I killed her, I _killed_ her. . . ."

"Y-you. . . ." she stammered, her eyes growing wide, her blood going cold. She glanced at the feet—bare, spattered with blood and covered in dust—and then back to Rythian. There were tears streaming down his face, drawing tracks through the blood. His hands were tangled in his hair, white-knuckled, so tight they were pulling it out.

Slowly, moving as though in a dream, Zoey walked across the room and looked behind the altar.

Lying face-up on the ground, her throat slit wide open from ear-to-ear, her face frozen in pale and permanent shock, was Elyse.

Zoey covered her mouth with both hands, holding back a terrified whimper and the ever-rising nausea. Something was chewing on her bones, acid and hot. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she backed away, shaking her head.

It was too horrible to be true. It wasn't happening. It _couldn't_ be happening. Surely she was still dreaming, surely this was just another nightmare and she'd wake up in the morning and everything would be all right. . . .

"What've you done?" she whispered.

Rythian choked out a whimper, then gasped three times in rapid succession, as though he'd forgotten how to breathe entirely. Zoey turned her eyes to him, unsteady on her feet.

"No, no, no," he moaned, shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut, pulling out tufts of his hair. "No, no, no, no. . . ."

"What've you _done?"_ she cried, her voice cracking.

He didn't answer, shriveling into himself and sobbing violently, but the sequence of events flicked through Zoey's head like a bad film.

He'd sent her to bed. He'd gone out, into the nighttime crowds, to that one particular corner where she would be waiting for him. No diamonds would have changed hands, there would have been no need—just sweet words and a rising fog in her mind and the touch of his fingertips. And then he'd brought her here, and he'd. . . .

He'd murdered her.

Slowly, Zoey's hand drifted to her own throat, to the streaks of blood Rythian had drawn on it with his fingertips. Dread settled onto her like ash, suffocating her, burning her throat and filling her lungs. She backed away from him, quivering with fear, her mind swarming like a hornet's nest.

Her eyes drifted to the bloodied dagger lying at Rythian's feet, forgotten in his distress. She glanced up at him, still curled up and rocking and struggling for breath.

Helpless.

Zoey edged forward a step, her eyes flicking between Rythian and the dagger. Inch by inch, she drew closer, watching him for any sign that he'd noticed her approaching. He only shivered and whimpered, his face buried in his knees.

Heart pounding in her throat, Zoey sidled up the last foot and swept up the dagger, hurrying back again out of arm's reach. The hilt was cold and sticky in her hand. She gulped, hefting it, testing its weight and balance.

"Please," Rythian whimpered.

Zoey's blood curdled in her veins, and her bones splintered with ice. She stared at him, her head full of static.

_"Please,"_ he moaned. "I can't—I can't do this—I can't—I _can't—_ please, Zoey, _please—"_

"Rythian," she whispered, horrified.

"Don't let me go back," he begged. "Please, God, Zoey, don't let me go back, don't let me—don't let me—"

He dissolved into sobs again. Zoey approached him slowly, as she would a rabid dog. Carefully, she knelt before him and touched his arm.

"Stop," she said quietly.

"I c- _can't,"_ he gasped. "I _can't,_ it _hurts,_ it hurts too much. . . ."

"Rythian," she said, her voice shaking. "Please. You have to stop."

The knife had grown warm in her hand. She was trembling.

_"I can't,"_ he repeated. "Please, Zoey, I don't want to go back, I don't want to _be_ that again, God, never again. . . ."

"Don't make me do this," she pleaded, shaking her head. "Please, Rythian, please don't make me do this. You're my _friend,_ you're—you're my _Rythian."_

He let out a sharp sound that could have been a laugh or a sob.

_"It was supposed to be you,"_ he whispered. He sucked in a shuddering breath through his teeth. _"God,_ I wanted it to be you. . . ."

Zoey gulped.

"Rythian," she said. "I'm not killing you."

His head snapped up. His face was twisted with pain, with _despair._ His eyes blazed red, feverishly bright, swimming with tears.

"Zoey," he choked.

_"You don't get to take the easy way out,"_ she said, the words burning her lips.

His jaw slackened, and his eyes went wide, and she stared him down, absolutely unwavering.

"They'll just kill me anyway," he said. "You _know_. . . you _know_ they'll just . . . and I'll—all alone, Zoey, I'm going to die _alone—"_

She dropped the knife and grabbed his face with both hands.

"No," she said firmly. "Stop it."

"I _killed_ her," he whispered. "And _God,_ it was good, it was so _good—"_

Zoey hauled off and slapped him.

"Stop," she snapped.

Rythian sat still, his breath coming slow and deep. Gingerly, he raised a hand to the red mark on his cheek. He blinked, and swallowed, and licked his lips.

"You just hit me," he said faintly.

"Should I do it again?" she asked, her hand still stinging.

"I—I don't—"

She hit him again.

_"Ow, stop!"_ he cried, ducking behind his hands.

"Are you listening to me yet? Are you?"

"Yes! I'm listening!"

"You are going to _fix_ this, Rythian Enderborn," she said.

"I can't—"

She hit him a third time.

_"Find a way."_

"It's not _possible,_ Zoey, that's not how the universe _works—"_

"Then change it!" she cried. "Change how it works, if you're so strong and powerful. Or was that all lies, too?"

"Lies. . . ? Zoey, I never—"

She reeled back her hand and he flinched.

"Enough," she said. "That's _enough._ Enough of you, enough of this, _enough._ It has to stop, Rythian. It has to stop and _you've_ got to stop it and _you've_ got to fix it."

"I can't," he said hoarsely. "I can't, just—just let them lock me away, let them kill me, Zoey—"

"You owe a debt to the universe," she interrupted. "And you're not dodging out on _my_ watch."

He was quiet for a long time, his eyes roving aimlessly over the floor.

"What do I do?" he asked at last.

Zoey set her jaw and took a deep breath.

"First of all," she said, her voice barely even shaking. "You find a shovel."

* * *

 

They buried Elyse by the wall, deep underneath the sand, trading off the shovel between the two of them. There were no flowers to leave, but Rythian brought a cluster of brightly colored crystals from one of the chests in the main tent and placed them down on the sand. He stood back and wrapped his arms around himself, staring at the grave.

"You owe her an early retirement," Zoey said quietly. "And a house on the beach."

He nodded, saying nothing, his jaw clenched and his fingers digging into his biceps.

When the silence had stretched long enough, she took him back to the main tent and let him choose a pickaxe. She went with him to the altar, standing at his side while he stared down at the swirling blood and the black smoke, his hands clutching the pickaxe and trembling.

"Rythian," she said.

"I can't," he croaked.

"You have to," she told him.

He turned weeping eyes to her. "Help me," he pled.

"No, Rythian," she said. "You've got to do it yourself."

He folded in on himself, his face screwed up with pain, baring his black teeth.

"It'll hurt," he whispered.

"Worse than this?" she asked.

Rythian took three quick, gasping breaths, then squeezed his eyes shut and swung the pickaxe up. He brought it down hard on the altar.

There was a sharp _crack_ as the stone broke, and then, after a brief pause, a gout of blood fountained out of the hole in the top of the altar, with enough force that it dislodged the pickaxe. Rythian cried out and dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. His breath came short and sharp, ragged, and each exhalation was a whimper of pain. Zoey took his arm and helped him away from the altar before he got covered in blood. He leaned heavily on her, shaking.

"It hurts," he whimpered. "It _hurts,_ Zoey, it _hurts. . . ."_

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry."

He collapsed against her and wept.

* * *

 

At sunset, they burned the magic tent to the ground.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the flames lick hungrily at the sky, listening to the roar and hiss and crack of the fire. It burned for eight whole minutes before Rythian spoke.

"There were other books," he said quietly.

Zoey turned and looked at him. He was still holding himself delicately, as though in pain, as though his bones were rusted through.

"Books?" she asked.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Notes. Instructions. And things to go with them. Orbs, and slates, and . . . things. There were other books."

She swallowed, and nodded, turning her eyes back to the fire.

"How many?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know?"_

"No," he said simply.

Zoey forced herself to breathe normally, to remain calm.

"Can we find them?" she asked.

"I can try. You, no."

"Why not?" she demanded.

A wry smile twisted his mouth.

"Do you _really_ want to stay involved in this?" he asked softly.

They watched the tent burn for a few more minutes. Tatters of canvas were floating up into the air, their edges singed and glowing.

"I'm leaving with Fiona," Zoey said. "We're going away together. I've decided."

Rythian shrank further into himself.

"I don't know if I can do this without you," he murmured.

"You'll have to," she told him. "But . . . I'll check in. Okay? I will check on you."

"Zoey," he said, his voice heavy with pain.

"Rythian," she replied.

He hesitated, then said, "Please don't save me again."

"I wasn't," she said slowly, "saving _you."_

He cracked in half—she heard the breath being knocked out of him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly.

She turned to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Rythian," she said, tears prickling at her eyes. "I _forgive you."_

He stared at her, uncomprehending. She shook him.

"Do you hear me? I _forgive_ you. And I'm telling you because—because it's _not_ easy. Because it's hard, it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and _I won't be able to do it again._ D'you understand me? I can't forgive you again. So please, _please,_ Rythian. _Please_ don't—just . . . _don't."_

His eyes filling with tears, he nodded.

"Never again," he whispered.

"Never again," she agreed.

* * *

 

Zoey let herself in quietly, heart pounding. The lights were on, and the door had been left unlocked. She dragged her single suitcase in and propped it up by the door. Fiona was in the living room, bent over some piece of technology.

"Decided to come crawling back, have you?" she demanded.

Zoey froze, her heart cracking in half, tears leaping to her eyes.

"What's changed your mind, then?" Fiona went on. "Found my girlfriend's fucking _body_ yet?"

"Fi," Zoey croaked.

Fiona froze, just for an instant, and then she leapt up and _sprinted_ to Zoey, crying already, her hands shaking as she grabbed Zoey's shoulders.

"Oh my God!" she cried. "Oh, my God, Zo, I'm so sorry, I didn't think it was you, I'm so sorry—where've you _been?_ Are you all right? Oh, God, please be all right, please tell me you're all right, I was going to come and get you but the fucking police wouldn't _listen_ to me and I couldn't go unarmed because then we'd just be _both_ dead but _God_ I was so scared, I thought—I thought—"

Zoey put her hands on Fiona's and tried her best to smile. Her lips were wobbling, and there were tears running down her face, and her heart ached like it was being squeezed in a vice.

"I'm okay," she whispered, because she couldn't make her voice any louder.

Fiona let out a sob and pulled her into an embrace so tight it squeezed all the air out of her. Zoey clung to her, weeping and sniffling and shaking.

"I love you," Fiona said, her voice cracked and urgent. "I love you, I love you, I love you. . . ."

"I love you, too," Zoey answered. "I love you a—a _very_ lot."

Fiona let out a choked laugh and squeezed her closer. They stood like that for uncounted minutes, crying into each other's shirts, both of them trembling.

"Remember . . . how we were going to run away?" Zoey managed at last.

"Yeah," Fiona said. "Yeah, Zo, I remember."

Zoey sniffled and nuzzled Fiona's shoulder.

"I think I'd like to start running now," she croaked.

And Fiona said, "Okay."

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. And please, be well.

The old sailboat skimmed across the water, driven by a steady wind. Strife stood at its prow, elbows leaned on the railing, staring out at the moonlit sea.

Slowly, he became aware of Parvis, standing close behind him.

For a long time, neither one of them said anything.

"Why are we doing this?" Parvis asked at last.

Strife shrugged. "To make sure he's still in there," he lied.

"D'you think he's not?"

"Does it matter?" he asked. "They won't come looking for us there."

"They wouldn't come looking for us anyway," Parvis said gently.

He shrugged again. Waves lapped against the side of the boat, and the rigging creaked.

"Strife," Parvis said. "Why are we _really_ going?"

Strife thought about his answer for a long time.

"You want him back," he said quietly. "And, maybe . . . so do I."

"I didn't _mean_ it," Parvis said, taken aback. "And you—you can't. . . ."

"I'm so tired, Parvis," Strife murmured. "I'm tired of doing this. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of being scared. At least it'll be _over,_ Parv. At least I'll be _done."_

Parvis touched his arm. "If you really, honestly want that," he said, "then why are you running?"

He chewed this over.

"The devil you know?" he guessed.

Again, there was a silence. Parvis leaned his elbows on the railing, and the wind tousled his hair.

"Leave him be, Strife," Parvis said. "Let him rest. Please."

Strife snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, right. Like he wouldn't jump at the chance."

"He wouldn't," said Parvis.

"Sure, okay."

"I mean it," Parvis said. His eyes were distant. "Rythian . . . Rythian _wanted_ to die. He _wanted_ it to be over. And I think . . . I think he died a long time before Zoey broke the altar. I think Rythian had been dead for weeks by then. Couldn't tell you why, or when exactly. But he was _gone,_ Strife. And he _wanted_ it that way. Everything he did, all the pain he caused, all the people he killed . . . it was all, _all_ just because he wanted to die, and he couldn't make himself do it any other way. So please. I'm asking you. As someone who . . . who loved him. Please, let him rest."

Strife took a deep breath and sighed it out again.

"What about you?" he asked.

Parvis shrugged. "What _about_ me?"

"What do you want?"

Parvis was quiet for so long that Strife thought he might not have heard. Strife looked over at him, and was startled to see tears on his face. He was staring out over the ocean, stony and weeping, the moonlight setting his face aglow.

"Parvis?" Strife said quietly, reaching out to him.

Parvis shook his head and wiped the tears off his face.

"I want to go home," he murmured, his voice broken.

Strife had nothing to say to that, and eventually Parvis left him there, going back belowdecks to sleep or maintain the machinery sailing the ship; he didn't say. Strife remained, gazing after him, until the cold seeped into his bones and he was forced to hobble back inside.

* * *

 

They made landfall two days later. The smell of the place hit Strife like a brick in the stomach, dredging up a thousand memories better left forgotten, presenting them to him with uncanny clarity. He just sat on the deck of the boat for a few hours, nervously touching the single pistol he'd brought with him, fiddling with the settings on his disassembler.

He had also brought a shovel, but he wasn't quite ready to take that out yet.

The whisper drifted to his ears on every gust of wind, just at the edge of hearing, tickling the inside of his head, whittling down his composure and his resolution.

_Come get me._

Two hours after the ship had come to rest, Strife went back belowdecks and replaced his disassembler with a shovel. He found Parvis, still sleeping in his hammock, and touched his shoulder.

"Hey," he said, as Parvis cracked his eyes open. "I'm going."

Parvis shook his head and rolled over.

"I'm staying," he said.

"Sure?"

"Positive," said Parvis.

Strife hesitated, chewing his lip, then shrugged and left Parvis there.

It was an hour's walk inland to find the site of the old base, the pistol tapping against his hip the whole way. The jumbled ground had grown over with moss and lichen and grass, and dandelions were running rampant over the whole area. It took Strife a good forty minutes to find the grave. It was marked with nothing more than a blank slate, which had fallen over in the intervening months.

Again, he hesitated, turning the shovel in his hands. He had no idea what he was going to do once he'd dug Rythian up, no clue as to how to proceed, or if he even wanted to. Maybe Parvis had had a point—that they could drop all of this, could put down roots and settle and not have to run any farther, that they could let it all go, let it all lie.

And he remembered the look of sheer and venomous hatred on Nano's face as she'd proclaimed his crimes to the others, and the clutching violence of Sips's hands on his arms, and the cold implacability of Kirin's face as he'd stated his word as absolute fact.

He drove the shovel down into the soft earth, and started to dig.

For three hours, there was nothing but the sound of the shovel slicing into the earth, the steady puffing of his own breath. His hands blistered, and he sweated clean through his shirt, but he kept digging steadily, never allowing himself to think about anything but the next shovelful of dirt. He did this so well that he only realized he'd reached the bottom when the shovel _thunked_ against hard wood and jarred itself out of his hands.

He paused a moment, catching his breath, wiping the sweat and dirt off his forehead. A terrible smell had begun to suffuse the air, the scent of rotting meat and prolonged decay. It made Strife's eyes water, but he ignored it. He scraped the dirt off the lid of the box, revealing it to daylight. It had caved in somewhat under the weight of the earth above it, cracked right down the middle, but it was mostly intact. Strife stared at it for fifteen full seconds, his thoughts finally catching up with him.

It still wasn't too late to turn back. It wasn't too late to walk away, to go home and face the consequences of what he'd done, rather than banking on the promises of a person who might not even have been real.

But there was that tiny, _miniscule_ chance that he could get out of this intact, that he could haul himself out of this grave a free man; and as hopelessly remote as the possibility might have been, he still couldn't bring himself to abandon it.

Strife pried the lid off the box with his shovel. The nails came out with a squealing noise, and dirt skittered down into the interior.

Within lay Rythian, crushed and mangled and rotting. The skin had pulled tight over his face, exposing the cracked wreckage of his teeth. The obsidian orbs of his eyes had splintered and chipped. Jagged edges of broken bones were protruding through the decaying flesh. Things were squirming in the sunken cavity of his chest. He was covered in a thick crust of dried blood, gone black with rot.

Strife turned away and threw up in his mouth, just managing to keep from vomiting all over the inside of the grave. The smell was overwhelming, coating his skin and sinuses like oil.

"Disgusting, isn't it," said Rythian.

Strife nearly jumped clear out of the grave, his heart skipping several beats. Rythian was sitting on the edge of the grave, kicking his feet idly, making faces down at his own rotting body.

"I think I'm wearing it better these days," he went on.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Strife hissed, pressed against the cool wall of the grave.

"Honestly, Strife, I don't know why you're acting so surprised," Rythian said. "I've only been calling you for three days."

"How are you _here?"_ he demanded. His heart was trying to climb out his throat. "I'm not—I'm not dreaming, you can't be here!"

"Says who?" Rythian inquired, tipping his head to the side. He hadn't taken his eyes off of the corpse. "We're nearly there, Strife. We're so _close."_

"Go away," he said. "Go away, get out of here."

In answer, Rythian hopped down into the grave. He knelt next to the corpse. Gently, he reached out and touched its ruined face, stroking its cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"He was so good to me, Strife," he murmured. "He loved me. He loved me so dearly, and I loved him. I still love him. I want him _back,_ Strife. I want to breathe with him again. He was so _good_ to me. I only want to make him feel again."

"Oh, God," said Strife, his lips gone numb, his stomach churning with disgust.

"I miss him, Strife," Rythian said, his face lined with pain, the rusty ache of longing in his voice. "I miss him. I need him. I _love_ him."

To Strife's horror, Rythian leaned down and kissed the rotting rictus grin of his own corpse. Strife clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up.

"Please," Rythian said, resting his forehead against the corpse's. "Please, give him back to me, Strife. Let him be mine again."

Strife had a sudden and vivid vision: this _thing,_ whatever it was, oozing through Rythian's insides, pleading and cajoling and whittling away at him endlessly, its words sweet and rotten to the core; eating away at his mind and breathing itself into his blood, winding around his nerves and strangling him out of his own body; killing him, devouring him, growing lush on the ruins of his soul.

Much as it had been doing to Strife.

"No," he said.

The thing raised its head, and its eyes gleamed with hellish light. It rose, slowly, unfolding like a marionette.

"No?" it inquired.

"No," Strife repeated. "Never."

"Is it so much to ask?" it said, gesturing to Rythian's body. "You would be free. You would never see me again."

"That's a lie," said Strife. "And even if it weren't. _He's_ free. He is _free,_ and he is _not_ coming back to you. Never again."

Something like anger flickered across the thing's face, there and gone again in an instant. It lingered in the eyes, glowing like hot coals.

"Then love me," it said, stretching out a hand. "Love me like he did. I will give you everything, Strife. Everything you could possibly want, everything you could ever dream of. Yours. Love me."

Strife turned his back and clambered up out of the grave, dragging the shovel along with him. The thing was waiting for him on the surface, wearing his skin.

It folded its arms and cocked a hip out to the side. Strife resisted the urge to draw the pistol at his side and empty the magazine into its head.

"You really are _stubborn,_ aren't you," it said, and sighed, all gravel and dust. "Look, what do you want from me? I'm telling you, you're never gonna get a better deal. It's been good, hasn't it? You haven't gone nuts and started killing people, what makes you think you're gonna start?"

Strife jabbed the shovel down into the mound of fresh earth and heaved a load down into the grave. It rattled against the open box.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?" the thing asked. "I can come back later, if you're busy. I got time."

He kept working, diligently keeping his eyes off of the thing wearing his skin.

"You're really just gonna ignore me, huh," it said eventually, moving to stand next to him. "Rude much? Fine, I get it. You don't wanna talk to me. Like I said, I can wait."

"You are going to be alone forever," Strife told it, growling.

"No," it said. "I'll have you. I'll have Parvis."

"Not forever."

It threw its head back and laughed. It had his laugh all wrong. "Oh, you wanna _bet?_ 'Cause, I'll take that bet. You can quit sanguimancy whenever you want, but you can't get _rid_ of me. I am _eternal,_ Strife. Someone will figure out how to bring you back, and I'll have them do it. You are _mine,_ Strife. Mine forever. I will never be alone."

"You will never stop being a pain in the neck," Strife retorted. "Until I figure out how to unmake you."

"You can't," it told him candidly. "In fact, you're burying the only person who could."

Strife hesitated.

"That's right," the thing went on, laying a hand on his back. "He tore me into the universe. He could sew me up again."

Shrugging the spectral hand off, Strife went back to shoveling dirt into the grave.

"You'll never be sure unless you do," the thing said. "You'll never be sure you're safe. How about those books, for example. Do you know how many copies he made? Do you know if they're all gone? You'll never be _sure,_ Strife. As long as I exist, you'll never sleep soundly. You'll be tossing and turning in your _grave."_

"Would you, please," Strife grunted, "shut _up."_

"You have to kill the monster to be a hero," it said. "If you run off, you haven't saved anyone but yourself."

"Not a hero," he told it. Sweat was running down his face again, drawing trails in the dirt.

"True," it agreed. "You're a coward."

Strife stuck the shovel upright in the dirt and glared at the thing.

"You _really_ think this is gonna do any good?" he demanded.

It grinned at him. "Maybe not right away," it allowed. "Give it thirty years, hey?"

A hole collapsed into Strife's chest, hollow and aching. A bleak future opened up in front of him, riddled with torment and laced with temptation. He shook himself, trying to put it out of his mind, but some of the steel had gone out of his determination.

"Since you think you have so much time," he said, "do you mind fucking off?"

It shrugged. "Seems like a waste, since we're already here. Wouldn't want you to have to dig him up _again._ Especially in thirty years. I mean, _he'd_ be a little more uh, _palatable,_ but you'd be old and I'd hate for you to throw your back out."

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" Strife growled.

"No," the thing answered. "No, I really don't. Ain't it great? I never get tired, I never get bored, I never _never_ stop. Sleeping? You'll be dreaming of me. Awake? I'm still here. There isn't an _out,_ Strife. Oh, you can make yourself miserable and you can pour all my power down a hole in the ground and pray it keeps me quiet, but I'm not _going_ anywhere. I'm gonna be here for the rest of your _life._ So maybe you should get used to me."

Strife went on digging, filling up the hole in the ground while the hole in his chest opened wider and wider. His eyes were stinging. He refused to think about why.

"It's over, Strife," the thing said. "You lose. You lost the second you pricked yourself with that sweet little knife. There's no going back. You get that, right? This is all you've got to look forward to. Oh, and a lifetime in prison back _home._ You could stay here and be free. Save yourself a trip later."

He said nothing. Against his will, a pair of tears slipped over his eyelids and ran down his cheeks. He went on burying Rythian, his movements mechanical.

"They hate you, you know," the thing went on. "All of them. You shouldn't go back. They wouldn't want to see you anyway. Probably glad you're gone. They don't care about you, Strife. None of them. Not like I do. You could be happy with me. Don't you miss being happy?"

One of the blisters on Strife's palm burst, smearing pus and blood over the handle of the shovel. He kept going anyway, not even pausing in his labor.

The thing wearing his skin shook its head and sighed.

"I can tell you're busy," it said. "I'll come back later. Don't wait up for me, hey?"

It vanished in the blink of an eye, as though it had never been there.

The feeling of being watched did not.

* * *

 

By the time Strife made it back to the ship, night was falling, the sky painted in brilliant orange and pink. The holster had rubbed him raw, and he kept adjusting it as he walked, futilely trying to ease the discomfort.

Parvis was sitting on the shore, waiting for him. He stood quickly as Strife approached, and hesitated. Strife walked up until he was only arm's length away, and then stopped.

"You're alone," Parvis remarked.

"I wouldn't call it that," Strife said.

Parvis paled, and his eyes darted, and Strife held up a hand to silence him.

"I left him, Parvis," he said quietly. "I left him in the ground."

Some of the tension went out of Parvis's shoulders, and he sighed.

"Thank you," he said.

Strife shrugged. "I understand," he explained simply.

"You . . . understand?" Parvis asked.

"What you meant. About him dying, y'know. Before he got killed. I understand."

Parvis bowed his head and looked away. "I'm sorry," he said.

There was a silence between them, separate from the whispering of the wind and the chirping of the crickets and the gentle breath of the ocean; a silence just for them, that contained only them, and all the unspoken things between them.

"What now?" Strife asked at last.

Parvis chuffed out something like a laugh and shrugged helplessly.

"We go back," he said. "We go back and we . . . we patch things up as best we can, and we hope like hell we don't make things any worse."

"You're telling me you're gonna try and _fix_ this?" Strife asked.

He shook his head sadly. "This can't _be_ fixed, Strife. Some things are too broken to be fixed. This is one of them." He paused, then added softly, "And we're another."

"So what's the point?" he demanded sharply. "What's the point, if we can't fix it?"

"The point is we make it stop," Parvis answered. "We make this _stop._ It has to end with us. Otherwise . . . otherwise it was all for nothing."

Strife searched his face, while the hole in his chest opened wider and wider, until it consumed his whole body, until it left him hollow and cold.

"How?" he asked.

"However we can," Parvis said. "Whatever it takes, whatever we have to do, whatever we've got to go through. We do it. We stop this. For us and for everyone else. We stop this."

"Parvis," Strife said quietly.

Parvis raised his eyes, faint concern on his face.

"What?" he asked.

Strife took a deep breath and let it out again. "Tell me . . . tell me you'll do anything to make it stop."

Parvis frowned at him. "Why?"

Strife shrugged. "I want to hear you say the words."

Parvis put his hands on Strife's shoulders and met his eyes.

"Strife," he declared. "I will do _anything_ to make this stop."

Strife swallowed, and nodded, and blinked the tears out of his eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered.

And then he took the gun from its holster and shot Parvis in the head.

There was no cry, no gasp or whimper; just the sharp _bang_ and then a deafened ringing in his ears. Parvis's body crumpled to the ground, a puppet with its strings cut.

Strife closed his eyes, pressed the smoking barrel to his own temple, and made sure that he would never hurt anyone else.

Never again.

 

 

**THE END**

 


End file.
